Secrets
by pamlin
Summary: The story of that disastrous retirement party mentioned in Timeline. This precedes Hostage Situation. I wasn't going to posted, but I was persuaded to by some friends here. Seaview and its denizens don't belong to me, and I don't have the slightest affiliation with them, more's the pity. Just having fun. I hope you enjoy it...
1. Chapter 1

The wings shone brightly under the desk lamp, gold against the black velvet on which they rested. Lieutenant Commander Chip Morton hadn't worn them in years; there hadn't been much point, given that the only plane he now flew was the little Cessna twin-engine he housed at a private airstrip near Santa Barbara. But it would be very odd indeed not to wear them tonight at Captain Howell's retirement party. The captain had been his flight instructor, and he had… well… howled the loudest when Chip had switched to the Silent Service after his service in Afghanistan.

Chip smiled a little at the memory as he lifted the wings and pinned them just above his gold submarine dolphins. There weren't many men in or out of the Navy who had both…

Sometimes he regretted giving up the skies for the ocean depths. When he had first come to Seaview a handful of years ago, he had done a great deal more for Admiral Nelson than he now did. He had designed the computer systems for the great gray lady, worked on the team that developed the Flying Sub, spearheaded the effort to build crash doors for the herculite windows in the observation nose. His mathematical skills had been in constant demand, and his pilot's instincts had been invaluable…

But somehow, over the years, Admiral Nelson had moved him to the sidelines. Chip wasn't sure why; but he knew it had begun the day Captain John Phillips had died.

Captain Phillips had been Admiral Nelson's oldest and best friend, and his only choice for commander of the Seaview. When Chip had reported for duty – last of the pre-commissioning crew to report, although he'd been among the first chosen – he had felt a certain distance in Captain Phillips. It wasn't surprising really; Chip had only done one tour of duty as an XO, under Captain Waters on the SSN Virginia, and he was one of the youngest – if not the youngest - XOs in the Navy. He had been Admiral Nelson's choice, not Captain Phillips' choice, and for the first several weeks it had definitely been a bone of contention…

But Chip knew his job and he did it well. Eventually Captain Phillips had warmed to him; eventually, they had become friends, and by the end, it had been as close to a father-son relationship as possible. Captain Phillips had lost a son, and Chip had never really had much of a father.

But as he drew closer to the captain, he grew away from the admiral. He wasn't even sure how or why it had happened. By the time Lee Crane had arrived, Chip had become the fall guy; the man Admiral Nelson chewed on whenever anything went wrong. He felt sometimes that he was being held to an impossible standard, but just when he was ready to quit, Nelson would give him a look that reminded him of the man who had taught his marine biology and chemistry courses at the Academy; the man who had hounded him unmercifully about joining the submarine service; the man who had flown out to the USS Ronald Reagan to personally present Chip with his Purple Heart…

His fingers lingered over that medal now, his skin pale against the deep rich purple ribbon. Next to it was his Bronze Star; both of them had been earned for the same action, but as special as the Bronze Star was, the Purple Heart meant more, because the man he admired most had cared enough to fly out from the States to present it personally, without a formal ceremony, before Chip had even healed enough to leave the ship's infirmary…

When he could catch a glimpse of that man behind the Admiral's eyes there was no way he could think of leaving the Seaview.

A knock sounded loudly on his door. Chip finished pinning his medals in place, picked up his cover and went to answer it.

Admiral Nelson and Lee Crane waited in the hallway, both also decked out in crisp summer dress whites. The Admiral's chest was decorated with a fistful of brass from his combat and Cold War days. The most prized of all was his Navy Cross, leading the phalanx of medals that adorned his chest. There were some who insisted that cross should have been a Congressional Medal of Honor, but Admiral Nelson had never shared the story behind the medal… Chip had no idea if what people said was true.

He stepped into the hall, closing his door behind him. "Did you get your speech ready, sir?" A respectful reminder that the admiral had promised to speak at the retirement party.

Nelson patted his pocket with a frown, and Chip heard the papers rustling inside. "I hate these affairs," he grumbled and turned away toward the elevators.

Lee fell into step beside Chip as they followed Nelson. He had far fewer medals than Nelson, but enough to clink gently together as he walked. "I haven't seen you wear your wings in awhile." The words were spoken with an undercurrent of surprise as if Lee had just realized that fact.

"Captain Howell was my flight instructor," Chip answered with a smile. "It would be very odd if I didn't wear them tonight."

Lee nodded absently as if he very much wanted to ask a question but wasn't sure how it would be received. Chip answered it for him anyway, knowing what he wanted to ask. "I'm a submariner."

"But you earned those wings."

Lee would have said more, but Nelson stabbed at the elevator button impatiently. "Howell." The name was snapped out with a bitter undertone. "Who the hell is Howell anyway? Another two-bit Navy pilot."

Chip stifled a wince at the words; best to assume the calm, inscrutable look Lee called his poker face. The Admiral didn't always realize how much his words cut; and if he did, he simply didn't have the knack of apologizing. When he did apologize, it was often so bitter and angry that it came off more as a rebuke than an apology. The admiral truly hated being in the wrong. Fortunately, he seldom was…

Tonight he was just grousing because Admiral Jiggs Stark had insisted he give the speech. It made sense; Nelson was respected both in and out of the Navy, and he had plenty to say about Captain Howell's contributions, once he'd figured out what they were. The speech would be well received, and Captain Howell would be duly honored for his forty years of service.

The admiral pulled his notes from his pocket as the elevator doors closed and began to go over them. Out of respect, Chip and Lee stayed quiet for the short ride to the second floor.

The elevator opened onto the mezzanine, but it was only a few steps to the ballroom where Captain Walter Howell and his staff waited in a receiving line. The admiral led, and Chip – as the most junior – brought up the rear. The admiral was greeted with due respect, and a bit of fawning flattery that he would loathe. Despite his mood, Nelson found a smile and some warm words for Captain Howell. Lee was passed through fairly quickly, a complete unknown to Howell and his staff. All too soon, Chip found himself shaking the man's hand and facing down that peculiarly cold stare Howell had.

"Mr. Morton." Howell's voice – always a bit raspy – grated the name out. "One of my best pupils. Why in God's name you ever left the skies to rummage around at the bottom of the sea I will never understand."

Chip smiled; naturally Howell would still be complaining ten years later. "It's in my blood, sir."

That truth sparked a memory of a party at his cousin's home. His father had reluctantly dragged him along; he could remember Alan Morton groaning about it, muttering to himself loud enough that his twelve-year-old son could easily hear him. He had been unsurprised when his father had rounded on him snarling angrily, "You'd better not embarrass me in there."

Even at twelve years old, Chip had known those words were empty. His father had stormed and sworn, and his words had sometimes drawn blood, but they were only words. He had never raised his hand to either of his children, or his wife. His words were chosen for maximum wounding effect, but Chip had perfected his impassive mask, and hid behind it more and more often, blanking out the frequent tirades and going elsewhere mentally until his father was done.

When they had reached Derrick Morton's home, Chip's father had quickly found the bar and retired there to drink and chain smoke. Derrick had taken charge of Chip and proudly introduced him to then newly minted Captain Nelson, younger, but still the same stocky, gruff man he was today. The words of the introduction had seemed prophetic to a twelve-year-old boy. _Harry, let me introduce you to my cousin, the family's next great submariner._

The reference was to Derrick's famous father – Chip's great-great-uncle – Commander Dudley 'Mush' Morton, a legend in WWII submarine warfare. Recognizing the allusion, Nelson had regarded Chip with those twinkling blue eyes and begun to ask questions. Chip knew he must have given satisfactory answers, because from that point on – much to his father's disgust – Admiral Nelson had become a force to be reckoned with in his life. Twenty years ago… After so much time, they should have known each other fairly well…

"The _**Navy's**_ in your blood," Howell insisted. "Submarines are just a passing phase." He glanced at the sparse line still waiting to greet him. "I hate this kind of thing. Listen, this is my aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Commander Mark White. Mark…"

Chip turned his head, catching the jealous glare in the other man's eyes; a glare he knew was echoed in his own angry gaze, minus the jealousy, naturally. Mark White was welcome to his job at the Pentagon, and his place on Captain Howell's staff. He would never be a command officer; he didn't have the personality for it. Or the patience. "We've met, sir." And it had not been a pleasant experience by a long shot.

Captain Howell glanced from one of them to the other, but plowed right on, as if he couldn't sense the tension crackling in the air around him. But then, he'd never been attuned to the atmosphere that surrounded him. "Mark, get Mr. Morton a drink." He gave Chip a wide and somewhat predatory smile. "As soon as I finish here, we'll talk."

Mark White was a big man, far too large to ever serve on a submarine; he had been one of the junior officers on the USS Ronald Reagan, when Chip had done his tour of duty in Afghanistan. White had been a bastard even then, and judging from the sour expression on his chiseled face, he hadn't changed much. They had never gotten along, and after the evil stunt White had pulled…

Chip shied away from that thought, drawing in a deep breath to stifle the anxiety that accompanied it. The look he turned on White would have had one of Seaview's crew wondering frantically what he'd done wrong, but White merely returned it with a glare of his own. He stepped out of the receiving line without even the hint of a smile. "If you'll come with me, Mr. Morton."

Chip shook his head. He wouldn't have walked anywhere with the rodent that was glaring at him now. "Thank you, Mr. White, but no thanks. I'll make myself available when Captain Howell is ready." He walked away through the press of Navy and Reserve personnel, making his way to a corner vantage point. He would be as good as his word, but he imagined that the captain would forget soon enough that he had wanted to speak to Chip. There were so many people here tonight, all of whom were far more important than he was. Chip wasn't even sure why he'd been invited in the first place…

As he moved through the crowd, Captain Jackson Waters hailed him. "Mr. Morton!" He hadn't quite managed to disguise the surprise in his voice. Chip knew he must be among the most junior officers here. Naturally, Captain Waters would be surprised to see him. The astonishment was more than balanced by the genuine pleasure and warmth in his gaze. "How are you? The admiral treating you well?" He arched his eyebrows with a smile. "Tell me you're ready to come back to Virginia. I'll be more than happy to have you!"

"Sorry, sir. The admiral treats me very well." Chip shook the hand that was offered him with respect. Captain Waters had been a good man to serve under.

Waters narrowed his eyes, a shrewd calculating look. "You should have stayed with me, lad. Best damned XO I ever had."

Chip couldn't stifle a smile at the rare praise. Captain Waters ran a tight ship, and didn't make such comments lightly. "Thank you, sir." He wondered idly who had taken his place aboard Virginia, when he'd left to join Seaview. Captain Waters had done everything he could to block the transfer, but in the end he had to let go, and it was common knowledge that he hadn't been happy about it. But Chip wouldn't have changed the decision to come to Seaview for anything in the world, now. It had been one of the best decisions he'd ever made, even though sometimes he wondered if he truly measured up in the admiral's eyes.

Waters grabbed a drink from a passing waiter. "The one I have now can't hold a candle, trust me." But he didn't say anymore on that subject, too good a commander to expose one of his men to ridicule or censure. "Tell me about Seaview. Is she as perfect as Admiral Nelson claims?"

Everyone wanted to know about Seaview. It was no hardship to talk about her, but so much was still classified that he had to be careful. He contented himself with an innocuous but heartfelt comment. "Finest boat afloat, sir."

Waters snorted skeptically. "Finer than Virginia?"

Chip's smile broadened. "With all due respect, sir, much finer. There's no comparison."

Waters laughed and drained his glass. "The admiral ought to appreciate your enthusiasm at least." He turned away to set the empty glass on a nearby tray, then turned back with a sigh. "Looks like Walter is trying to get your attention. Did you serve under him?" There was a note of disapproval in the captain's voice; submariners didn't have a whole lot of love for pilots.

Chip glanced over his former captain's shoulder, a bit surprised to see Captain Howell waving at him. "He was my flight instructor, sir."

Waters nodded with a sage frown. "Ah, yes. During that period of brief insanity you suffered before you came to your senses and joined the Silent Service." He laughed again, and shook hands with Chip once more, before he stepped aside, a clear dismissal. "You'd better answer the summons. When you're finished talking to the old goat, we'll catch up. I want to hear all about this nickname you and Captain Crane have picked up. Madness and Method? I can guess which one you are!"

Chip turned his face away to hide the flush. That stupid nickname… He hadn't the foggiest idea who had started it, but it had spread like wildfire among Navy circles. He and Lee had thought it would die a quiet death after a few months, but here it was, four years later, and the damned thing still dogged their every move. If either of them had been able to figure out who was keeping it alive, they would have cheerfully hanged the person from the nearest yardarm. "Yes, sir." He made his way to Captain Howell, who waited at the balcony door.

"There you are, Mr. Morton. Come outside where we can talk." He pushed through the French doors onto the balcony.

The summer night was cool enough to strike through the thin cotton twill of their dress whites. Captain Howell placed his cover on his head, but Chip left his tucked under his arm, wondering idly why the guest of honor would abandon his retirement party to smoke on a balcony and converse with a junior officer. It didn't seem to be the sort of thing Captain Howell – who prided himself on knowing all the most important men in the Navy – would do…

The lights below them in the hotel garden brightened the night. The flowers had come into their own, rich and vibrant with exotic blooms that perfumed the night. Roses were the most prevalent, the deep spicy scent hanging on the air, underscored by a slight touch of decay. Even this early in the summer, the roses were already dying. Some veteran landscaper hired by the hotel would be able to keep them alive and blooming for a few weeks, possibly months more, by dead-heading the bushes, cutting away blooms for the vases inside, coaxing them with heroic efforts. But that faint hint of decay would presage the bush's dormancy, the death of all its luxurious blooms by summer's end…

Chip shivered in the night air, wondering if it didn't presage something darker and more sinister. Bright as the night was, it seemed to herald some unforeseen danger. He shook the thought away with a shake of his head at the conceit, and glanced at his former flight instructor.

Captain Howell leaned on the balcony railing and drew in a deep breath. "Do you ever fly anymore, or are those wings just decoration?"

Chip had expected the captain to attack aggressively, so the question hardly surprised him. He waited a moment, allowing the silence to defuse the tension somewhat, and then answered with a calm air of deference. "Yes, sir. Every time I get the chance."

The captain took out a silver case, shook a cigarette into his hand, and lit it. "That little twin-engine you were so proud of? Hardly worth the title of airplane. You know what I mean, boy. Do you fly a real machine, or do you just muck around at the bottom of the ocean?" As he tucked the cigarette case away again, the junior officer moved a step further from him, disliking the smell of the smoke.

Chip frowned at the question, but was careful to keep his face turned away so that Howell couldn't read his expression. "I guess you'd say I just muck around at the bottom of the ocean, sir." He couldn't quite keep the disapproval out of his voice, earning himself a sharp glance from the captain.

"Instructor's wings are meant to be used. Have you ever instructed anyone?" The question was a trifle less belligerent, as if Howell were trying to dial it back some, but the words were still aggressive.

Chip stifled an impatient sigh and looked back into the brightly lit ballroom, still wondering why they were out here, instead of mingling with the crowd inside. "Yes, sir, I have." He left it at that submitting to the interrogation, but unwilling to share more than absolutely necessary. He had indeed instructed a few of the men on the boat at the controls of the flying sub… A paradox if ever there was one; a paradox that he had helped Nelson solve…

Captain Howell puffed on his cigarette for a few minutes silently, then dropped it and crushed it underfoot. When he spoke again, his voice was lighter. "Do you get to fly that flying sub of Nelson's?"

"Occasionally, sir." Odd, how the truth hurt just a little. He would have liked to fly the sub he'd helped to design more often, but he was junior; for the most part he had to follow orders and let Lee do the flying. Ironic, since he had trained Lee on the sub's controls himself.

"I hear you worked on the design team for that thing. What was that like?"

Chip shook his head, but softened the refusal of information with a smile. "I did, sir, but the flying sub is classified. I'm afraid I can't tell you anything about it."

Captain Howell made an abortive movement that drew Chip's eye, but his protest was mild enough. "My security clearance is higher than yours."

"Yes, sir." Chip turned his attention back to the ballroom, wishing he were inside instead of undergoing this interrogation from a man he respected but hadn't worked with for ten years. "That's true. But you don't work for the Nelson Institute, sir. So with all due respect, I'm afraid your security clearance means nothing." He frowned as several people burst into the ballroom.

"Maybe I should work for Nelson!" Aggression had returned to Captain Howell's voice, but he quieted when Chip raised his hand as a caution.

"Gatecrashers, sir. Let me reconnoiter the situation." Chip took a step toward the French doors, saw one of the men inside pull a gun, and recoiled. "They're armed. We need to get you out of here."

But Captain Howell moved toward the French doors, stopping only when Chip stepped into his path. "I won't run away. We don't even know why they're here."

Chip glared at him incredulously, forgetting for a moment that Howell was his superior and had never served on a submarine, where it was every man's prerogative – indeed their duty – to question any orders that could endanger the boat. "They're crashing your retirement party, sir. You worked at the Pentagon, and your security clearance was high enough to make you privy to some valuable secrets. Who else would they be after?" He spared an anxious thought for the admiral and Lee, trapped inside, but he knew his duty lay in getting Captain Howell to safety. Lee would take care of Admiral Nelson. Moving forward, he forced the senior officer back to the balcony railing, and looked over.

A large boxwood hedge grew directly below. Not the ideal landing but it would break a fall. "We'll go over the balcony. Let me help you, sir." Howell started to protest, but Chip ignored his bemused gaze and shepherded him up onto the balcony rail. It was harder than it should have been. Howell had gained a great deal of weight in his later years, and he was very stubborn. But at last he was teetering on the balcony rail. Chip jumped up beside him, grasped the captain's wrists, dropping his cover in the process, and lowered him down as far as he could. With a whispered warning, he let Howell drop, but didn't wait to see him fall. Instead, he dropped from the rail into free fall himself, not liking the helpless feel of it, but having no choice. The bush came up fast, giving under his weight, and exacting revenge for its destruction by scratching exposed skin and pulling at the cotton twill of his dress whites.

Chip rolled to his feet and quickly located Captain Howell. The man had moved away down the path toward the front of the building and was beckoning to him. Chip went after him quickly, halting the captain's advance by grabbing his arm. It was unforgivable insubordination, but Howell had apparently forgotten everything he'd ever learned about caution. "Excuse me, sir, but we can't go that way." Whoever these men were, they would have covered front and back entrances to insure their prey didn't escape. He explained succinctly, retaining his grip on the captain's arm as he read Howell's incredulity on his face.

"Which way do you suggest we go then, Mr. Morton?" The angry tone underscored Howell's frustration; Chip suspected the admiral would get a sharp complaint about his behavior, but he couldn't worry about that now. If he failed in his duty, there wouldn't be any need for a complaint. Howell would be in an enemy's hands, and Chip himself would probably be dead…

A quick reconnaissance of their surroundings told Chip that there was only one way out of this that was feasible. "We'll have to go over the wall, sir."

Howell's jaw dropped. "Seriously? Over the wall?"

Chip decided a brief reality check was in order. He swung around to face his former flight instructor, his tone cold and purposeful. "Sir, you don't seem to understand the seriousness of this situation. Armed men have invaded your retirement party, and it's a safe bet they weren't on the guest list. It's also a safe bet that they wouldn't know who _**was**_ on the guest list, unless it was leaked to them. So by process of elimination, sir, they are after you. They came prepared; therefore chances are they have the obvious escape routes covered. Ergo, we will have to go over the wall."

Howell had closed his mouth, but now he stared at Chip with narrowed eyes. "Well-reasoned, Mr. Morton. I see they reckoned without your ingenuity." But he had no other comment to make, a fact that made Chip vaguely uneasy. Surely he would have had something else to say… But there was no time to contemplate the sense of wrongness about this situation. He led the older man to the garden wall, an eight-foot stone construction, and gave him a leg up and over, then backed up, gauging the speed he would need, and took a run at the wall, grasping the top of it, and pulling himself over.

On the other side was a service alley, leading to streets at the front and back of the hotel, and bisected by a throughway that led to a street that ran parallel to the alley. The throughway provided access to trash dumpsters and a haven for the homeless.

Captain Howell watched him with a skeptical gaze. "Which way now, Mr. Morton?"

Chip turned to study him then, the vague sense of unease turning to full-blown alarm. "Sir, you can figure this out as well as I can…" And being senior, he should have taken the lead a long while ago.

Captain Howell crossed his arms, appraising Chip with a cold stare. "I'm curious to see what your take on the situation is."

Something wasn't right. At every turn, Captain Howell had done his best to walk into trouble rather than escape from it. His reluctance to go where Chip wanted him to had been marked, and Chip suddenly realized that he should have paid attention to that fact, that it should have over-ridden his sense of urgency and devotion to duty. Whatever was going on here, it was becoming clear that Captain Howell was clearly up to his neck in it…

Which meant that the guest list for this shindig probably _**had**_ been compromised; and that made it better than even odds that - given his prominence in both military and scientific circles – Admiral Nelson was the target after all. "Damn it!" Chip turned sharply back to the wall, preparatory to going over it, back into the hotel garden, but Captain Howell's movement drew his attention. He froze in astonishment at the broad-nosed pistol that had appeared in Howell's hand.

"Don't waste time worrying about Nelson," the captain advised with a sneer. "I don't give a damn about him. Every Navy man from here to Hawaii would be looking for him within two minutes of his disappearance, and he wouldn't tell me anything anyway." A sardonic smile gave a sinister cast to his face. "But who's going to bother to look for you, Commander?"

_I hear you worked on the design team for the flying sub…_

Everything became clear in a blinding flash. Somehow, somewhere along the way, Howell had sold out; now on the eve of his retirement, he was hoping for one last big score. There were parties who would pay untold billions for the flying sub's unique and highly classified schematics. And of the original design team, only he and Admiral Nelson survived…

Chip's gaze hardened as he assessed his options. Clearly Howell's weapon – that oddly broad-nosed pistol – was not life threatening. Killing him was not part of the plan. It was most likely a dart gun to be used if he resisted. And he was definitely planning to resist.

As if sensing that, Howell brought the gun to bear and squeezed the trigger. Chip leaped aside, hearing the whine as the dart grazed past him. Younger and faster than the sixty-year-old captain, he sprang on the man before he could fire again, crushing him against the wall. Howell's eyes widened but he fought back gamely, trying to shove the dart gun into Chip's abdomen.

Chip twisted aside from that attempt, jerking the captain away from the wall, just as a car squealed down the alley, screeching to a halt by the struggling pair. Sensing trouble, Chip swung Howell toward the car and felt the captain jerk like a marionette in his hands. His hand closed over the brass on Chip's chest, and his lips pulled back from his teeth. He hissed something unintelligible, then his eyes rolled back in his head and his sudden dead weight dragged him from Chip's grip, pulling one of the medals loose.

Another car screamed up behind the first one; his options were dwindling. He had no time to break away before men swarmed from the cars, led by Commander Mark White. All of them were armed; Chip was clearly outnumbered. No options left. Though it went against the grain, he slowly raised his hands in surrender.

Commander White sneered. "I told him you wouldn't do what he expected you to. This will throw a wrench in our plans. It wasn't supposed to happen like this." His frustration lingered behind intense brown eyes.

"Pardon me for making things hard for you." Chip returned the glare with his own wintry gaze.

Their eyes locked for several long seconds before White smiled. "So sorry to ruin your dress whites. You're always so pristine." He fired his dart gun as he spoke.

This time the dart thumped home, driving bruisingly deep into Chip's shoulder. He had a moment only to contemplate the unreality of the situation before dizziness struck and he fell into blackness.


	2. Chapter 2

Admiral Harriman Nelson saw the men come in, their dark attire contrasting strongly with the dress whites that filled the room, and dragged Lee behind a bank of potted plants. "Something's wrong," he hissed at the captain.

Lee peered cautiously through the leaves, anxiously assessing the situation. "They're armed. We need to get you out of here, sir."

Nelson shook his head impatiently. "They're not here for me…" He looked around, suddenly realizing that one of his officers was missing. "Where's Chip?" Damn it… This wasn't the time to be separated. He tried to think of when he'd last seen Chip Morton, scowling when he realized that they'd been separated at the receiving line.

Lee volunteered more information. "He was talking to Captain Howell, sir. They went out on the balcony."

Nelson growled, every nerve tight with anxiety. "Damn it, Lee." He kept his voice down, but his tension fairly crackled in the air. "These men are probably here for Howell." He darted a glance around, looking for an escape route.

"Chip will look after the captain, sir." Lee's voice was steady, but his expression told Nelson that he understood the precariousness of the situation. Still, the admiral felt compelled to bring his fears out into the open.

"I know that, Lee. And that's the problem." Chip Morton would understand instantly who these men were after, and he would do his best to get Howell to safety. But if they caught up to Howell while Chip was with him… The thought tightened the admiral's chest. If they caught up to them, his executive officer became expendable… "We have to get out of here…"

Lee shot a glance at him. "There's a door about eight paces to the right. I'll set up a diversion. Jackie Waters would be glad to help me…" He turned to face the admiral. "You can get out while we distract their attention."

Nelson didn't like the plan. He'd already been separated from one young officer. He didn't intend to end up separated from the other. Besides, Lee had skills he would need if he were to find Chip quickly. And Howell, too, of course, but at the moment, he didn't really give a damn about Howell… "No, lad. I'll need your help to find Chip. There has to be another way."

Lee returned to his vantage point, peering through the leaves of the bank of plants. "Admiral…" He beckoned the admiral down to look with him. "Watch Commander White. What's he doing?"

Nelson crouched down beside him and looked for Lieutenant Commander White… Howell's aide-de-camp, surely? He remembered being introduced in the receiving line. The man was tall and oily. Nelson had had the instinct to rub his hands clean on his uniform, but had resisted. He had not liked White at all, even though he'd only just met him, and they hadn't spoken but a handful of words to each other. He wasn't sure why, but the man reminded him of a reptile. Cold- blooded, with no emotion in those intense brown eyes. He spotted the aide-de-camp standing at the balcony doors, turning something in the locks – obviously a key – as he talked to two of the armed party crashers. It almost looked like he was giving orders, but… That couldn't be…

The armed men turned away from the balcony doors. Strange… It was the only part of the room they hadn't searched, though granted their search hadn't been exactly thorough. They hadn't even looked behind the potted plants where Nelson and Lee were hiding. In fact, oddly enough, they hadn't even looked for the admiral at all, and they must have known he was in attendance...

Nelson cocked his head, thinking about that. Why hadn't they searched the room more thoroughly? There were important men here besides Howell… Men who, in fact, were _**far**_ _**more**_ important than Howell. Yet, these armed men hadn't even bothered to search for them. Why shouldn't they look outside? The balcony was a good exit for anyone trying to escape. Yet they hadn't prevented Commander White from locking the French doors and steering them away. Had the aide-de-camp been able to convince them that Howell wasn't there? Or was Commander White giving orders rather than attempting to protect his commanding officer? Just what exactly was going on here?

He knew Howell probably wasn't on the balcony anymore… Chip would have gotten them both down into the garden. After that…

"They're leaving…" Lee's voice held a note of incredulity. "Why are they leaving? They haven't even searched the room adequately. They didn't find us, and we're not hidden that well… They're ignoring Admiral Stark, and Admiral Parker… COMSUBPAC and head of ONI, and they're ignoring them? And not even looking for you…"

"Howell's not here." It wasn't an explanation, but it was all he had to offer at the moment. He had to get a handle on what was really going on here before he could even begin to answer any of Lee's questions. Nelson noted the men sweeping through the room toward the ballroom entrance, but he kept his eye on Commander White; something about the man's demeanor bothered him. He should have been showing some kind of concern for his missing superior, but instead he almost appeared… smug. As if he knew something no one else did. He followed the men out the door, as if he were with them... Or sweeping them before him… Leading them?

The ballroom door swung shut behind the last of the gatecrashers. Nelson could almost hear the lock click into place. He strode out from behind the plants, heading for the balcony doors, feeling Lee fall into place behind him. As he approached, he contemplated Commander White's role in this mystery. Why had he gone with the men? Had they already found Howell? Was White a traitor?

"Looking for White?" Captain Jackie Waters of the SSN Virginia paused at Nelson's side. "That reptile. He went out with the others, and left us locked in here."

Nelson glared at Waters, exploding at the innocuous question. "Hell, no, I'm not looking for White! Why the hell should I be looking for White?" But his thoughts were almost entirely of White, as his mind shifted into high gear. Something read wrong, here. If White were involved, then he could track Howell and find him easily. Chip's only chance to get the captain away was to be totally unpredictable…

Jackie studied him; he could feel the shrewd, calculating gaze. "You're right to be concerned." The captain of Virginia measured his words slowly and carefully. "If White is involved, he'll be able to find Howell easily… No matter how ingenious our young Mr. Morton is…" He paused, as Nelson directed a hard appraising glare at him. "You don't know White. He's no submariner, but I remember him from the Academy. He didn't excel; no one has ever been able to figure out why Howell made him his aide-de-camp." He glanced at Captain Crane, watching as Lee paced impatiently. "White's an enigma… And not a pleasant one, either. But I can tell you one thing about him: He has never liked Mr. Morton… Not since they served together on the Ronald Reagan. And you must know what happened there."

Oh, yes, Nelson knew that story. It still burned him up when he thought about it. Why White hadn't been court-martialed for that offense he couldn't say, but if it had been left to him, the man would have been drummed out of the Navy. But Chip had declined to press charges, after a private conversation with his CO, and nothing Nelson had said had been able to budge that stubborn young mind once it was made up. "The bastard is in this up to his eyebrows," he growled at Jackie.

Lee, impatient with the unproductive conversation, perhaps not even hearing it, grabbed an empty tray from one of the waiters, and threw it through the glass of one of the French doors. Not the most direct route to the goal; there was no key to turn in the lock, once he reached it. Instead, he kicked the doors hard, bursting them open, and satisfying his need for activity. "Admiral!"

Nelson nodded at Waters, and ran for the balcony. Outside, the cool night air pierced his dress whites, but he barely noticed. Lee had picked something up: a white cover with a Navy submariner's cap badge. Chip's cover… Lee glanced at Nelson, then dropped the cover and scrambled onto the railing, balancing precariously. "Look here, sir. They went over right here. The hedge below has been damaged by the fall." He didn't wait for Nelson's answer. Instead, he dropped off the balcony rail himself. Nelson went after him, though he was no longer as agile as the younger man. He hit the boxwood hedge hard, and needed Lee's help to struggle to his feet. "Which way, now, sir?"

Nelson assessed the options. Chip would have figured that both ways out of the garden would be guarded. Where would he go? How would he get out?

A screech of tires almost directly in front of them, beyond the garden wall told the tale. Nelson ran toward it, but he couldn't make the leap to the top. Lee followed him instantly, offering a leg up. Nelson stepped into the captain's cupped hands and grabbed the top of the wall, but all he saw as he dragged himself onto it were two cars racing away down the alley, and a crumpled shape lying almost directly below. "Lee!"

Lee Crane had already clawed his way to the top of the wall, and now dropped down the other side, crouching beside the body on the sidewalk. As he turned it over, Nelson dropped down beside him, and stared into Howell's face.

"I don't understand…" Lee looked up at the admiral. "Did they make a mistake?"

Nelson shook his head, fighting the anger that was building inside. "They didn't make a mistake. How could they possibly mistake a thirty-two-year old lieutenant commander for a sixty-year-old captain? Their collar insignias are different, they're wearing different medals… Even their build is different! Look at Howell! He won't see fighting trim again. And his hair is dark, he's bearded. They couldn't possibly have mistaken Chip for Howell…" Nelson paced away from Lee, spotted a bright object on the ground nearby, and knelt to pick it up.

A Purple Heart. The pin had torn loose, ripping a piece of white fabric with it. He knew as soon as he picked it up and felt the familiar way it rested in his hands that he had held it before. Ten years ago, when he had personally presented it to a young Navy pilot who was still in the infirmary recuperating from his injuries. That pilot had been shot down behind enemy lines in Afghanistan, and made his way back to the coast, saving the lives of two other downed American pilots, and taking a bullet that had nearly killed him. Chip had earned not just a Purple Heart for that action, but a Bronze Star as well. Nelson closed his fingers over the medal, ignoring the pain of the pin digging into his palm. "They weren't after Howell… They were after Chip."

Lee glanced up at the Admiral and rose, his face mirroring his shock. Chip was so self-effacing; hardly the expected target of a kidnapping attempt. There probably weren't a handful of men outside Navy circles who even knew who he was…"But why?"

Nelson opened his hand, showing Lee the medal, ignoring the bloody streak from his wounded palm. He spat the answer out angrily, shuddering with his rage. White was in this up to his neck, but he would regret taking one of Nelson's hand-picked men. The admiral would personally crucify him. "Why? There are hundreds of reasons why! He designed the computer programs that run Seaview's systems! Suppose they want to know how to disable her?" He paced away, closing his hand over the medal again. It was cool in his hand, except where his blood warmed it. "He was on the design team for the flying sub. If they want the schematics…" He paused, considering, and closed his eyes. Of course… That must be it… "Only he and I are left of the team that worked on it."

Lee's gaze hardened. "He would never give anything away. You should know that."

Nelson looked down at the Purple Heart; the rich, dark purple ribbon was stained now with blood. The medal glittered bloodily in the moonlight, a reproach that struck home painfully. He should never have allowed himself to be separated from either of his young officers. He should never have allowed Chip to venture out onto the balcony alone with Howell… "I know… I'm more concerned about how they'll try to make him talk…" He turned back to Lee, his gaze resting on Howell's body. "We need to call someone for Howell." But he was fine… Breathing easily, no significant injuries, barely even a bruise…

Nelson's eyes narrowed as he looked at the man. Given that they wanted information about the flying sub, why would they leave someone like Howell, who could give them so much more? His security clearance was high enough to make him privy to some valuable secrets; men who wanted information to sell would hardly have left him sprawled here in the alley, unless…

Unless he were in it, too.

Nelson's roar of outrage startled Lee, drawing his attention from his phone call. He lowered the phone, concerned. "Someone's on the way. What's wrong, sir?"

"Howell's in it up to his neck."

Lee glanced down at Howell, clearly puzzled. "But, sir…"

Nelson shook his head impatiently. "Listen to me, Lee. They wanted information. They wouldn't have left a man like Howell in this alley. He has a very high security clearance, he's privy to valuable information. No one who was looking for secrets to sell would have left him lying here. Unless he were part of it. Unless he were already giving them what they wanted…" He glared at the unconscious man, his anger rising into his throat in a growl. "I'm too hard a catch. If they did manage it, I wouldn't talk, and everyone would be looking for me anyway. But our Mr. Morton…"

Lee rose from Howell's side again, his eyes flashing, intent on defending his friend. "He won't talk, sir. You know he won't. If that's what you're worried about…"

"Listen to me!" Nelson bit the words off, feeling the tension sizzling in the air between them, a product of his anger and guilt at his own stupidity. Of course, it would have been up to Howell… Chip knew him, and could be reasonably expected to trust him. All Howell had to do was separate him from Nelson, introduce a hint of danger, and Chip would do what he was trained to do… It was instinct; it was in his blood. "Howell's job was to separate him from us. Once they'd done that, they introduced armed men into the mix… What do you think his instinct would have been?"

Lee looked down at Howell again; understanding dawned in his eyes. "He would have known that it was imperative to get Howell out of there… And he would have done his best."

"But not knowing Howell was part of it, he played right into their hands," Nelson finished, grinding his teeth on the words. Damn it… He should have known. Somehow he should have been able to prevent this…

Pacing away from Lee, he couldn't help but hear John Phillips' voice in his head. John had never had any qualms about making his misgivings heard; he would have been giving Nelson hell by this time, worried about the young man he had come to think of as a son. _What the hell were you thinking, Harry, letting him be separated from you? You never trusted Howell, you should have known…_

The worst of it was that John would have been right. Nelson never had trusted Howell or liked him. The man was sewer scum, leaving a bad smell in the air. The few times that Nelson had had any dealings with him, since he came to work at the Pentagon, had been unpleasant indeed. Howell had a sense of entitlement; entitled to more money, entitled to more secrets, entitled to use Nelson's submarine and all her men for his own ends… Nelson had thwarted enough of those attempts over the years that Howell had been at the Pentagon… It was no surprise that the captain had felt compelled to sell his country out. The only problem was that there was no proof of that.

He turned back to Lee Crane - an altogether better man than Howell would ever be. "I'll wait here for the ambulance. Go back to your room. Call Sharkey and have him bring a team here in the Flying Sub."

Lee nodded; unlike John he was in the habit of trusting Nelson completely. John had trusted, but had his own back-up plans ready just in case; they'd both been in too many situations where they'd only had themselves to rely on. John had, on the whole, been a quieter, less reckless captain than Lee Crane was, but John's contingency plans had nearly always involved putting himself in danger to save one of his crew. And he would have done anything to protect Chip, his surrogate son. This situation would only have become more volatile if John were here, involved, and on the warpath, as he almost certainly would have been by now. On the whole, for all that he missed John painfully, it would be easier to solve this problem with Lee's help rather than with John's…

It felt oddly disloyal to think that way… As Nelson watched Lee rush away, he offered a silent apology to the memory of his dead friend. If he were to be fair, John had always tried to find the safest way… And in any case, Chip was never the sort to get himself into trouble. The two of them had rubbed along so well, precisely because John was larger-than-life, and Chip was mathematical, methodical, precise, and, to a large extent, self-effacing. He didn't tempt fate; John, on the other hand…

Nelson had to smile… John had been incorrigible. He'd loved camping, for example… Despite the fact that his camping trips were uniformly disastrous, John had still insisted on them…

_But now isn't the time to be thinking of John…_

John was gone; there were more important things to worry about now… He turned a glare on Howell as the ambulance roared around the corner into the alley. If only he had proof that Howell was behind this… Without proof, no one would believe him.

It was a situation Nelson was more than familiar with. Always, he had had to argue men into believing him, because proof was lacking; no one ever wanted to listen to what was plain common sense anymore. He stood and watched as the paramedics worked over Howell prior to loading him into the ambulance. Within a very few minutes, Nelson was alone, contemplating the mess they were in… and searching actively for solutions…


	3. Chapter 3

Chip Morton awoke with a start, disoriented and confused; the dim circle of light around him revealed nothing but a featureless empty space. He could feel a column of wood at his back, possibly some sort of support structure. His wrists were fastened above his head with what felt like wire. He tugged on it and winced as barbs slid into his flesh. Lovely. Whatever Howell and White wanted, they definitely meant business…

Footsteps echoed through the space, stirring up a scuffling movement all around… Rats… Chip shivered in horror; he hated rats…

A pair of khaki-clad legs stepped into the circle of light. Knees bent, and Lt. Com. Mark White looked into his eyes with a sardonic smile. "Careful. You don't want to pull too hard on that barbed wire. They can smell the blood, you know." He paused as if expecting a comment, but Chip said nothing. He was well aware that the longer he stayed silent, the harder it would be for them to get anything out of him.

"The silent type, are you?" White laughed, the sound echoing off walls, giving Chip an idea of the size of the space. Not large, but not small either. Maybe sixteen feet square? As if in answer to the echoing laughter, rats scuffled in the darkness. A whiskered nose poked into the circle of light, and Chip shrank back against the wood at his back, unable to tame his instant response to the creature's appearance.

White's smile broadened. "You hate them, don't you? I remember why."

"You damned well should." The words slipped out almost before he thought; the memory of White dogging that hatch against him would probably haunt him for the rest of his life… He closed his eyes against the memory, and swallowed the bile that rose up into his throat.

"Don't take it so hard." White's voice drew his attention again. The bastard was laughing at him. "The light will keep them at bay for a little while." As if on cue, the light flickered and White glanced upward as he reached into his pocket. "Uh-oh… It might be on its last legs." He pulled out a penknife and opened it. "Why don't I help you, Mr. Morton?" He moved closer and Chip tensed in anticipation; this wasn't going to be good. "I'd hate to leave you alone down here in the dark."

White slashed the knife across his chest, parting the crisp white fabric, slitting the shirt beneath, and opening a long fairly deep gash in his flesh. Blood welled up, staining his dress uniform crimson. White rose and looked down at him. "You'll have plenty of company now." He walked away, passing out of the circle of light, his footsteps finding echo in the frantic movements of the rats. A door closed in the shadows somewhere…

A large black rat meandered into the dim circle of light, only inches away from his shoe. Chip jerked back from it, instinctively tugging at the wire that bound his wrists, and felt the barbs dig deeper. The rat rose up on its hind legs, its whiskered nose twitching as it sniffed the air. It came down on all feet, and moved closer. Chip drew his knees up, curling as far from it as he could and pulled on the wire with his whole weight.

It held. The rat sniffed, its nose wriggling, and came closer, right up against his pants leg. Another rat followed it into the dim circle. At the same time, another dropped down onto his shoulder, and he jerked away from it instinctively. The wire tightened inexorably around his wrists, sending the barbs in deeper. The rat on his shoulder, crawled toward his bleeding chest, and Chip stifled a panicked groan. He kicked at one of the rats that was investigating the toe of his shoe, and pulled against the wire that bound his hands again, wincing as the barbs bit cruelly.

The light flickered off then on again, dimmer than before. He bit back a moan, but couldn't stop the panicked beat of his heart or the quickened shuddering breaths that aggravated the shallow cut across his chest. Nausea coiled in his stomach, an instinctive reaction to the rodents. He remembered all too well how they had congregated around him in the hold of the Ronald Reagan…

Teeth sank into his arm; another rat, drawn by the blood that oozed from his wrists. He tried to shake it off, but it held on with teeth and claws. Others began to join it, crawling onto his legs, across his chest, down the post his hands were bound to. He kicked at more rats as they ventured too close, feeling the panic rise into the back of his throat. The circle of light grew smaller as the light dimmed. If he had to estimate how much light he had left, he would have said no more than half an hour.

He clamped his lips against the low animal cry of distress that burned to escape. They were just trying to soften him up; intellectually, he knew that… It was a ploy to make him give them what they wanted, and he refused to give in to it. But when more rats joined the others, knowing there was no way he could get away from them while bound securely to this post, it took every ounce of self-control he had not to scream. Instead, he began to work on the wire in earnest, trying to ignore the rats, not liking the shivery feeling in his stomach or the light-headed queasiness that rose into the back of his throat. Symptoms that spoke of panic and sparked the memory of that dark hold, and the rats all around, pawing at him, gnawing at him…

He had seen what they could do… In Afghanistan, trapped behind the lines, with two other pilots depending on him to get them out, he had come across a small shanty, uninhabited, except for the rats… It wasn't until they'd entered with flashlights, and shooed the beasts away that they'd found the owner of the hut… She had died there, alone in the dark, and the rats had gnawed her face away… Knowing the Taliban's opinion of women, he had wondered if she'd been sentenced to that death, or if it had been a terrible accident.

They hadn't been able to stay there and rest, after they'd found her. He'd buried her behind the hut, and they'd moved on. Two days later, he'd taken a bullet from a Afghani soldier, and the other two pilots had had to rescue him… It seemed unfair that he'd received the Bronze Star for that action…

His eyes were adjusting to the dim light and the blacker shadows, and he could see them now… Everywhere he looked, the place was crawling with rats and they all seemed to be pressing closer to him. The memory of that Afghan woman's missing face caused him to pull harder against the wire binding him. He felt it give a little and drew in a deep shuddering breath, wincing at the pain in his chest. His shirt, soaked with blood now, stuck to the wound. Rats had congregated there, their beady eyes staring at him as they chittered madly, scrabbling to find a purchase on his blood-slicked shirt. He felt it tear beneath the onslaught and choked on the cry that he wouldn't let escape.

The light flickered again; he almost didn't recognize the moan that accompanied the dimming as his, it sounded so like an animal. In a blind panic, he tugged against the wire with all his weight, pulling hard, and felt the wire snap. His hands tumbled down, and despite the tingling numbness and the blood, he used them to swipe the rats off his chest, scrambling to his feet, and hastily brushing away the rats that still clung to him, though his hands were still bound by the coil of wire; he could see a rusty break in it, but that didn't help him… The broken wire twisted too tightly and bit too deeply for him to free his hands.

He shied to one side as another rat dropped from above him, and felt it strike a glancing blow against him, scrabbling to try and find purchase on his sleeve as it fell. All around him, beady eyes caught the shine of the dimming light, and he shuddered at the sound of their soft chittering.

The flow of blood from the long shallow cut across his chest had slowed, thanks to the adherence of his shirt to it, but blood still dripped steadily from his bound hands; the barbed wire bit more deeply with every movement he made, and with every beat of his thundering heart, his chest throbbed, and every sobbing shuddering breath stung. As if on cue, the ever-dimming light went out again, and this time it did not flicker on again…

Without any more hesitation, the rats closed in all around. Knowing he had to keep on the move to discourage them – a lesson he'd learned from the dark bowels of the ship he'd been trapped in before – he began a desperate circuit of the room, kicking at them, brushing them away, wincing when he felt teeth bite into his skin, or claws rip his uniform. His eyes burned now, and his head was pounding… Panic, perhaps, loss of blood possibly… The mass of rats at his feet seemed to have a life of its own, a giant mound heaving and chattering. He stumbled, tried to catch himself, and failed, falling among them. Teeth and claws slashed across the skin of his hands, the cut on his chest, and the blood-drenched sleeves of his uniform, and for a moment, he thought he was going to drown under them, before he found his feet, and scrambled up, trying desperately to get them off him. His breath came in great shuddering sobs, and he tried desperately to stifle the sound… He wouldn't let his captors know just how terrified he was.

He stumbled again, over a step, grabbed at the railing to keep from falling. A stairwell… Made of steel, with spaces large enough to put a foot through between the treads. Possibly a basement stair… The rats were surging over the steps, trying to get at him; he moved on, feeling the crunch underfoot as he stepped on one; it squealed under his shoe, and his ankle twisted as it writhed in agony. He almost went down again, but somehow kept his feet. God… How long would they leave him down here?

Until the rats won?


	4. Chapter 4

Lieutenant Commander Mark White glanced at his watch. An hour… Funny. Knowing how terrified Lieutenant Commander Morton was of the rats, he hadn't expected the man to last an hour without a scream or two. He was tempted to leave the golden boy down there longer, but this was only a softening up exercise. Captain Howell wouldn't like it if he died of fright before they could get the Flying Sub's specifications from him. Mark smiled to himself; there would be time enough later to play; God knew Morton had it coming.

He'd always been the poster boy… The one everyone else had to look up to. Mark remembered how it had been on the Ronald Reagan almost as soon as Lt. Morton had joined the ship. Not a hair out of place, dashing, and handsome, the perfect golden boy. And there was Mark, at least four years older, still a lieutenant, and going nowhere fast. God, how he'd hated that young pilot. Mark was the one who'd had to listen when the captain had praised Morton for his quick thinking when a fire broke out in the wardroom. And Mark had choked on his words of gratitude when Morton had saved his life after an accident that had nearly taken his head off… Damn it, he'd hated always being compared to the perfect officer and gentleman. Mark was tough, hard, and knew how to make the dark choices. Morton was too soft, too perfect. He'd waited his chance, and when it had come, he had taken advantage of it. A quick stunning blow, drag his victim through the dark bowels of the ship, dog the hatch against him, so that he would miss his flight, miss his chance to earn anymore praise…

But no… Somehow the golden boy had found his way out and made his flight. His first mission over Afghanistan, and he'd been shot down. Mark had rejoiced; seven days of celebration, before that damned submarine had picked the man up. And he'd earned a Bronze Star for it, something that couldn't be earned in aerial combat, but could be earned for action on the ground. And of course, Morton had seen plenty of action on the ground in those seven days.

Perfect again. Always so damned perfect… And meanwhile, older men with wiser heads were being overlooked for promotions because the Navy's poster boy was oh, so dashing… Oh, yeah, he had it coming. And Mark would see that he got it.

But for now, it was probably time to rescue him from the rats. Mark signaled one of the big ex-Marines he had recruited for this plot, and jerked a thumb at the basement door. The man pulled it open, and shone a flashlight down into the darkness.

Mark peered past him and almost laughed. Morton had broken free somehow, and found his way to a corner near the stairs where he was hemmed in by the rats, and trying his best to keep them off him. As the light struck him, he looked toward it, and Mark saw the panic writ large in those blue eyes. Good… Maybe this was all it would take to shake the information loose. "Go get him." He told the ex-Marine. They had names, but he just called them Mutt and Jeff; they didn't seem to mind. This one was Mutt, and he lumbered down the stairs, grabbed Morton by the arm, and shoved him toward the stairs. He stumbled and fell, and the rats swarmed him; Mark watched, finding it entertaining, but after all Morton didn't scream or make a sound, other than an almost soundless gasp and the ragged sound of his breathing. Mutt grabbed his arm again and thrust him up the steps. Mark took hold of him and jerked him through the door, tossing him down in a chair. Mutt shut the basement door and leaned against it casually, within easy reach of the prisoner. Time for phase two…

But first Mark took stock of Morton's condition. The long shallow cut across his chest had stopped bleeding, but his wrists were in bad shape, chewed up by the barbed wire. There were other places bleeding now, rat bites and scratches here and there. His dress whites were almost in rags; pity… He always kept his uniforms so neat. Yet another black mark against him. Oh, superiors loved that poster boy look. Everything in order, neatly pressed, not a hair out of place. They wouldn't find Morton so impressive if they could see him now. In complete disarray, dress whites in shreds, panicked fear in those wide blue eyes… Yeah, the brass wouldn't be so impressed now.

Mark moved a little closer, attempting intimidation with his proximity. "Maybe you'd like to tell me about that flying sub your boss has?"

Morton didn't even look at him; instead he sat there in the chair, head down, his shuddering breaths the only sound in the room. Too bad…

"Funny… I didn't think you'd like the rats that much. Want to go another round?"

Morton flinched, but still didn't say anything. Damn, Mark hated the silent types; they were a whole hell of a lot harder to get information out of, and he didn't have much time. He had thought that hauling out his big guns right off the bat would do the job quickly, but now he wondered if after all, it had been a mistake. "Mutt. Why don't you toss him back down there for another hour."

That got a low animal moan of terror, but still no words. Mutt hauled the pretty boy up and tossed him through the basement door. Mark glanced at his watch. Another hour, perhaps two… Morton was already in panic mode; a little while longer might be all they needed. If not, well, he'd promised to let Mutt and Jeff have a go… They'd see what a beating could do. And there were a myriad other things they could try. Mark knew his job; getting information out of the toughest opponents was something he excelled at. Nelson's golden boy had had everything handed to him on a silver platter; he hadn't ever had the experiences needed to toughen him up, Bronze Star or no Bronze Star. This should be a cakewalk…

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. Mark drew it out and looked at the display. Mercy Hospital. Captain Howell, undoubtedly. He would be in a foul mood, but too bad. The two of them would be going their separate ways soon enough, which was a definite plus. Howell put too many restrictions on Mark. His beady little eyes lit up at the thought of the money, but he was too soft to allow Mark free rein. In this case, Mark had been glad to leave him sprawled in the alley, unconscious from his own dart.

He slid the lock with his thumb and raised the phone to his ear. "Commander White."

"Mark." The peevish voice was definitely Howell's. "I'm at Mercy. Come get me."

Like he had time to be a chauffeur… He glanced at the basement door, then down at his watch again. The rats should be taking their toll, but it was disquieting that Morton hadn't made a sound yet, other than that moan when Mark had tossed him back to the rats. He hadn't expected so much fortitude, and it was a disquieting signal that things might not be so easy after all...

It would take a good forty minutes to reach Mercy Hospital, possibly an hour to spring Howell, another forty minutes to come back, maybe longer if he had to shake any tails. Nelson's captain had ONI training, and Nelson himself was quite smart enough to have made Howell as the instigator of this little project. They'd be looking, though it was beyond Mark's knowledge why they'd even care. He'd definitely have to be careful not to lead them here before he'd even had a chance to work on Morton. Commander Crane's ONI training would stand him in good stead to make an extraction if he figured out where they were. Mark didn't want to tangle with that.

His lip curled… Crane. Another one of Nelson's golden boys. Where the admiral dug them up, Mark had no idea, but he should have left them buried. How many others had had their chances spoiled by those two. Madness and Method… God, it made him sick that they even had a damned nickname that everyone recognized. Nelson's poster boys, respected in every quarter. He'd heard COMSUBPAC go on and on about them, while waiting for Howell's signature on something… Mark could never figure out if Stark hated them because of their aura of perfection, or if he were angry that Nelson had stolen them out from under his nose.

But Crane's moment was not yet come. For now, he had young, perfect Mr. Morton to work on. So… Maybe a three hour round trip to the hospital to pick up Howell. And by then, Morton ought to be completely undone. If it were that easy – and how he hoped it were that easy - they could get their money before the weekend; he already had a plan to slip out of the country, and an estate in Samoa, where there was no extradition to the US. He'd finish his business with Morton and retire to a life of luxury before the end of next week.

Mark smiled and glanced at Mutt, still leaning against the basement door. "I have to go pick up the boss. It will be awhile before I get back. Just let him alone down there, unless he starts screaming." Surely, before three more hours were up, the rats would have done their job, and softened him up. He rarely got anything out of anyone before they started screaming. It was the moment he waited for, eagerly, every time he questioned someone for Howell. "If he does, haul him out, and put him in the broom closet until I get back."

"Yes, sir." Mutt's husky voice twisted the words into something far less respectful than they should be. Mark wasn't concerned; both Mutt and Jeff had gotten dishonorable discharges, and they were tough as nails. He would use them to advantage and then get rid of them when he didn't need them anymore. He grinned at the man, and strode out the kitchen door into the garage where his car was parked. This was shaping up to be a pretty good morning.


	5. Chapter 5

Lee Crane kept the rental idling. He didn't like using a rental for tailing, but they didn't have much choice, so late last night, he'd turned in the sporty little Dodge for a dark-colored model much more likely to blend in. He'd seen White go into the hospital about an hour ago. Surely it wouldn't take much longer for him to spring Captain Howell. When they headed out, he would be behind them, and with luck, they'd lead him straight to Chip.

He didn't expect to be so lucky, however. Still, he could get them into the vicinity, and when their COB, Chief Francis Sharkey and his hand-picked crew arrived this afternoon, they would have the means to begin a search.

Which was a damned good thing. The Navy was making a half-hearted attempt, but they seemed more relieved that Howell hadn't been taken than concerned that Seaview's XO had been. Captain Jackson Waters of SSN Virginia was agitating for more help; but Chip had served with him before taking the position on Seaview. Virginia had been his first and only tour as an XO, before his re-assignment; there were people – Admiral Jiggs Starke among them – who had thought the admiral crazy for choosing someone so young and inexperienced. But the choice had been inspired. Jackie hadn't wanted to lose his man, but he at least held no grudges; the Navy may not offer much help in this search, but Waters was doing his best to get them to change their minds.

His phone vibrated on the seat beside him, and he glanced at it briefly. _They're leaving. Howell didn't give me anything, but I made him damned nervous. White's car is a Gray Cadillac ELR Coupe. Brand new._ Lee smiled; he'd been with the admiral long enough to settle into a crisply effective working team. The admiral softened them up, and Lee followed them home. The perfect one-two punch. If only it worked as well, this time around…

He spotted the tall figure of Commander White, escorting Captain Howell's stockier, heavier shape toward the car in question. Nice car… But Lee preferred something a little flashier… He pulled out of his space, swinging his car past theirs, glad for the tinted windows that meant they couldn't see him, while he had a nice view of them. They backed out behind him, and he kept his eyes in the rearview mirror, as he turned right into the street.

Right was the way most cars turned as they left the hospital parking lot. It was easier than trying to turn across traffic. But he couldn't be sure which way White would go; it was a relief to see the gray Cadillac swing in right behind him. He kept going, keeping to the speed limit, insuring the traffic behind him was slow enough to keep the gray car in sight. When it signaled a left turn at the light, he kept going, turning left at the next intersection, and making a quick three-quarter square. Looking to the right, he saw White's vehicle about two cars ahead of him on the cross street. He followed smoothly, accelerating here, dropping back there, but keeping the car in sight.

White tried about four quick turns, clearly afraid that he had a tail, although Lee was fairly certain he hadn't been spotted. And he wasn't going to be shaken by ploys such as these that wouldn't fool the village idiot. After awhile, they moved into seedier districts, where even Lee's dark, late-model sedan looked a bit out of place; the gray Cadillac stuck out like a sore thumb. It was easy enough to keep it in sight, even though he was now lurking three cars back.

Residential and commercial areas gave way to trees and open spaces; they were leaving the city. He didn't know this area of the country well, so it would be trickier to follow here, especially as the traffic thinned. He eased back a little farther, hoping to stay off White's radar.

Without signaling, the Cadillac turned right. Lee cursed, and sped up a bit, looking for the road it had turned onto. After a moment of panic, he found it, and turned in, but could see no sign of the car he was following. He drove on for a few miles, hoping to catch up to it, or see another place where White might have turned, but he found nothing. The car had vanished without a trace. Damn!

But he hadn't really thought it would be this easy. Executing a three-point turn, he went back to the main road, and looked for a sign, marking the road, but there was none. Picking up his cell phone, he clicked on the GPS and looked at his position. Selkirk Road… It didn't appear to lead anywhere significant, but he was sure that White had turned down Selkirk Road…

Before he headed back to the hotel, he turned around again, and headed down the road more slowly, looking from left to right, clinically evaluating every cross track he could find. Most of them were dirt biking trails, but one, several miles in, heading westward into the trees might be a good place to start. He parked by the side of the road and got out.

Tire treads were clearly evident. He knelt beside them, frowning over the tread. Brand new Cadillacs had distinctive tires with a distinctive tread. This track didn't fit the bill, but that didn't mean anything. White might have switched the tires out as soon as he purchased the car, for precisely this reason: so that someone wouldn't be able to follow his tracks. He might be the bastard his background indicated he was, but he was quite smart enough to shake a tail, apparently even one as good as Lee.

He could turn down this narrow, one-lane dirt road, but he had already lost White, and had no wish to come up on him now, when the man would be prepared. Probably even looking for him. He would have studied the personnel on Seaview before he and Howell tried this little coup. He would be familiar with Lee's ONI background. Lee couldn't take chances with the man; the cards he held were too important, and it was clear to Lee now that it was White who really called the shots. Howell was only a figurehead. An important one, with contacts that White couldn't begin to match, but a figurehead just the same.

And if this was White's show… Lee gritted his teeth and glared at the tire tracks. It had been easy enough to dig up material on White. Lee had quickly found out about the incident on the Ronald Reagan, and there had been plenty of people who had told him all he'd ever wanted to know about White's opinion of Chip Morton… They were coming up on twenty-four hours since the snatch. If they didn't find their missing man within forty-eight hours, chances were good they'd lose him altogether.

But that didn't mean they'd quit looking. Lee would never quit looking. It wasn't in his nature to abandon a friend and colleague. Eventually, he'd run White to ground, and the man would pay for this.

But for now, there was nothing to do, but return to the hotel and start looking for places that Howell might be hiding someone on Selkirk Road. And when the chief arrived later, Lee would take Sharkey hunting for a couple of wolves in Navy uniforms.


	6. Chapter 6

He stumbled on the steps and lurched against the railing, grasping it tightly with his bound hands. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving him alone in the dark… Alone with the rats…

Chip stifled the panicked sob that rose to his lips, and released the railing, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. After a moment, he could see them, their eyes gleaming, paws scrabbling against the dirt floor below. A few – braver than the rest – scrambled up the steps toward him, and he kicked them down again, a bit unsteadily. Retreating from them, he set his back against the door.

Their hesitation wouldn't last. Soon, the smell of blood would drive them forward, eagerly hunting for him…

_He approached the hut carefully, under cover of rain and darkness. They couldn't stay in the open much longer. Reeves' blood left a clear trail, and while at the moment, the blood washed away in the rain, when the downpour stopped… On the other hand, Anderson was tiring markedly. Both men had been struggling toward the coast for more than a fortnight. Reeves had been shot, a clean through-and-through, but movement aggravated the wound, and they couldn't seem to get it to stop bleeding. Anderson was hobbling around on a leg that might well be broken. Both men had reached the end of their endurance by the time Chip had found them. Basically uninjured himself, he had harried the other two men on, looking out for both of them. _

_But they had miles to go before they reached the border, and crossing over into Pakistan was not an easy prospect. While the Pakistanis were supposed to be allies, there were sometimes… misunderstandings between downed pilots and Pakistani soldiers. _

_ Their best bet was to slip across the border undetected and head for the coast near Karachi, where they might find an American submarine patrolling the waters. The trouble was the mountain range between here and there was formidable, and neither Reeves nor Anderson was in much shape to climb. There was a road that ran from Quetta, down that way, but they needed to stay away from the roads if they could…_

_ For now, he needed to get his charges in out of this rain. He crept a little closer to the hut, blinking away the rain streaming down his face. No light brightened the canting window frames, and glass was a thing of the past, if it had ever existed at all. He sensed no movement inside, but the skittering of rats. _

_ The thought of the rats caused him to shudder and swallow the bile that rose into his throat. As long as he lived, he would never forget White dogging the hatch against him, leaving him to the rats in the hold… _

_ But that was a thought to put aside for now. He eased closer to the hut. They could cover the windows with the silk he'd saved from his parachute, maybe start a fire in the fire pit, provided one existed, and they could be sure they wouldn't be seen. He could make a stab at cleaning Reeves' wound and stemming the flow of blood…_

_ And they could look at the one precious map they had between them. Reeves had grabbed nothing before he'd bailed out of his plane, but he hadn't really had time. Anderson had managed to grab a revolver and some bullets, before he, too, bailed out of his fighter… Neither of them had been in any shape to think about preserving their parachute silks. They were lucky they hadn't been caught immediately._

_ Chip, an altogether more methodical person, had gathered into a pack the things he thought he'd need, should anything go wrong. When the rounds had clipped his engine, and he'd known he was going down, he'd simply reached for the pack, strapped it on, and jumped. An expert parachutist, he'd come down as close to the river beneath him as he could, splashed through the waters to kill his scent, and shot the two Afghani soldiers who'd come upon him as he was cutting his chute silks into a manageable pack._

_ Killing them had gone against the grain. They hadn't expected to find an American pilot there by the river, but they couldn't be allowed to report his presence. He had had to chase one down before he could finish the man… The sudden empty look in those dark eyes still haunted him. He'd never killed before. He wondered if he could ever do it again…_

_ He hunkered down outside the window now, and peered in. No one shouted at the sight of him. He took a chance and clicked on his flashlight, shining the beam in the interior._

_ Rats scattered away from the light. But no other movement answered the beam. He turned and sent a quick signal Anderson's way, and in a few minutes, the older man loomed out of the rain, supporting Reeves, who was drooping. At the least, they had to get his bleeding under control. An antibiotic would be helpful, but Chip wasn't sure if the first aid kit in his pack included one. He waved them into the hut, making another round outside before entering himself. So far, so good…_

_ But when he entered, he found Anderson kneeling beside the body in the far corner, where his flashlight beam hadn't found it. Anderson had turned her over, and they could all see the nightmare that was left of her face… The rats shrieked at them, ravening in the darkest corners as they stared in horror at the gnawed mess of her face…_

He shuddered, moaning, and clamped his lips over the moan. He would not give them the satisfaction of knowing just how terrified he was. He had enough shreds of pride left to resist giving them that knowledge. If they knew he were afraid, they would continue to use the rats as a punishment; he wasn't sure if he could resist them for long. He had managed to keep his mouth shut so far, but every man had a breaking point. He knew instinctively that the rats were his…

But he had to resist… Betraying Admiral Nelson wasn't an option. He drew in a deep breath, and glared at the rats. Not surprisingly, they weren't impressed. A band of them swarmed up the steps toward him, and he braced himself against the door. When they came too close, a kick sent them squealing, flying down the steps, through the slats, and hard to the floor, where they disappeared under mounds of their fellows, who clearly weren't above cannibalism…

God only knew how long he'd have to survive down here this time… But at least he was relatively free; the ability to move around, to fight back against the hordes relieved the strain of terror a bit, anyway. And the rats were slow to attempt the stairs, though clearly they could smell his blood and were keen to feed. Perhaps the light that shone brightly under the door deterred them, or maybe the climb itself. But as long as he stayed up here, he might have a bit of relief from them…

He leaned against the door, tuning out the shrieks and squeals below, and listened to what was going on in the kitchen.

He heard a door slam… Someone had left. But he couldn't be sure both White and the other man, who had all the hallmarks of a soldier-for-hire had gone. So he waited, kicking away the rats who dared to make the climb.

He couldn't be sure how long he waited. Long enough that it began to seem strange that there was no movement in the kitchen. Yet the light still shone under the door. Was it White who had left, or the mercenary, or both? The kitchen was oh, so quiet and still. He laid his bound hands on the knob of the door. A glance at it from the kitchen side had told him there was no visible lock, no bolt, nothing to keep it shut. Theoretically, he could ease it open… It wouldn't be that easy, of course. There was no way Mark White would leave this place unguarded… He cracked the door…

It was pushed back against him, hard enough that he lost his footing and fell, stumbling and stuttering down the steps, trying to break his fall by grabbing the railing. Above him, the door jerked open again, and he made out the mercenary standing framed in light, and heard his words… "Going somewhere, pretty boy?" Before he hit the basement floor hard enough to knock his breath away, and the rats descended, drawn unerringly by the scent of his blood…


	7. Chapter 7

Mark White left Howell to find his own way into the house. The man's constant demands drove him crazy; if Howell had left everything to him in the first place, they wouldn't have had to worry about Nelson and his team of sub jockeys. But no, Howell had tried to finesse everyone, and it had backfired. While it was clear that the Navy brass were simply relieved that Howell hadn't been kidnapped, it was also clear from the way Nelson had been shooting questions at them at the hospital that the admiral had already figured out a great deal of their game plan. His words hadn't included even one veiled threat, but then they hadn't had to. Nelson never threatened, anyway. He just got on with business.

Part of that business had likely included the dark sedan that had tailed them a good part of the way home; whoever the tail was – probably Commander Lee Crane, if rumor of his involvement with numerous ONI missions was correct – he had been extremely good. Mark hadn't even been certain of it until they'd gotten out onto the highway. A turn down the obscure Selkirk Road, and a few more hairpin curves had lost the tail, but Mark had wandered the back roads for a little more time, before heading back to this place: an old farmhouse that Howell had purchased under a deceased sister-in-law's name. The beauty of the farmhouse was that it was in the middle of nowhere, with no clear escape route – Mark knew better than to underestimate the man they'd taken captive – and all the approaches were clearly visible from the house itself. Not to mention that lovely, spacious basement with the horde of rats that had been living on the rotting produce that had once been stored down there.

He glanced at Mutt as he came in the kitchen. The man curled his lip in a sneer and shook his head. So… Maybe Morton wasn't as afraid of the rats as Mark had always believed. In any case, he was still down there. Mark picked up a flashlight from the counter. "Open the door." Mutt sidled away from the basement door and swung it open.

He could hear Morton's panicked breathing as soon as the door opened; no screams, no other sound, but the quick, ragged, sobbing breaths told the tale. He shown the light into the space, looking, and finally found his quarry at the back of the room, leaning against the wall, feebly fighting the rats off as best he could. Pathetic really. Mark jerked his thumb at Mutt, and the guy sauntered down the steps and crossed the basement floor, guided by the light of the flashlight, kicking casually at any stray rats that crossed his path. As he reached the mound of rats at Morton's feet, he reached out, gripped the commander's arm, and hauled him away from the wall.

Mark, watching with a feral smile, heard Howell come into the kitchen. Great; the last thing he needed was Howell interfering with the process. He turned toward the captain. "I'm doing an interrogation. Why don't you head upstairs."

"I want to watch you work." Howell's voice was gruff; he had the kind of stubborn ego that made Mark's head ache, but he wasn't going to win this time.

"Our agreement doesn't work that way. I get free rein with the interrogations. You get to sell the information I obtain. Get out of here." The edge in his voice should get the weaker Howell moving. He'd always felt he should have outranked the man, instead of vice versa; but his promotions had stalled early. His FitReps had never been great. He owed the last promotion – to Lieutenant Commander, finally – to Howell, because the man had chosen him for his aide-de-camp. It galled him that younger men, like the fool in the basement, had gotten promoted over him, had been given positions of importance, had even been chosen for Nelson's grand experiment, while Mark himself had been left behind. It made no sense, and smacked of a personal affront.

Mutt grunted in surprise and, hearing it, Mark swung back to the basement door. A curse and a thud, then Morton sprang through the door, white-faced, but determined. Damn it, what had happened? Mark tackled him, coming in low, so that he knocked the younger, slighter man off his feet, and they both tumbled back through the basement door. Mark felt each tread of the basement stairs on his back as they rolled down, and fell in a heap on the writhing mound of rats at the bottom.

The squeals were deafening; a sudden realization of how they could terrify a man flashed through Mark's mind like lightning as they crawled over him and he struggled to keep them away from his face. Then a hand hauled him up out of the mess, and brushed the few rats still clinging to his uniform off. It took him a moment to recognize Mutt, still cursing profusely. The ex-Marine reached down again and this time extracted Morton from the pile of rats, tossing him upwards none too gently. The younger man stumbled and fell hard against the treads, but Mutt didn't offer any sympathy. Instead, he dragged him up again and shoved him into the kitchen. Mark followed at a slower pace, feeling the bruises from his fall. Damn it, this was ridiculous; the rats should have terrified Morton into submission… Where had this futile attempt to escape come from? He shouldn't have had the guts for it, much less the strength to carry it out.

Mark entered the kitchen, his anger and disbelief whipped up into a frenzy. Mutt had tossed Morton into a chair, and Mark advanced on Nelson's stooge with a powerful backhand across the face that knocked him to the floor. "Try that again, and I don't give a damn how valuable the information in your head is, I will kill you."

Howell – still in the kitchen – voiced a protest. "Mr. White!"

"I told you to leave me alone." The words were sharp with a manic edge. Howell's eyes widened in shock, and he backed off, fading away into the nether regions of the house. Mark looked down at the man on the floor. "Put him in the closet. Make sure you check that wire. Looks like it broke, and I don't want him loose just yet." His eyes narrowed. "And you can take some payback for this little stunt. Just don't get too carried away.

"Sure, sir." Mutt's response was too casual, but the hint of excitement under the words meant that he understood what Mark was offering him. He dragged Morton away, leaving Mark to ponder what he was going to do next.


	8. Chapter 8

Chief Sharkey frowned; he didn't like this crazy tale at all. Whoever this Captain Howell was, he was one sneaky bastard and no mistake. But Sharkey didn't know anything about him… The one man in this whole affair he did know something about was that Commander Mark White. That guy was bad news…

He remembered working with White, back when the guy had been a junior lieutenant on the destroyer USS Hopper. He'd been mean as a snake back then. The chief had had to watch out for his sailors, because White had been inclined to terrorize – and in a couple of instances – brutalize them. He'd never been so glad to see an officer leave a ship, as he'd been to see White leave Hopper.

He'd heard a couple of years later that White had gotten into trouble on board the Ronald Reagan for conduct unbecoming and assault with intent. The incident had involved a promising young pilot, about to fly a mission over Afghanistan, and a dark hold full of rats. The pilot had managed to escape and fly his mission, but White had gotten an official reprimand, and ended up on shore duty. Sharkey had heard about it from his girl who had been a chief aboard the carrier; according to her, White had been lucky to escape a court-martial.

If he'd ever really thought about it, Sharkey wouldn't have said he'd ever run across White again. The man was too big to work on a submarine with its tight quarters and low ceilings. And he was too mean to have much of a career in a service that prided itself on the conduct of its officers and expected them to adhere to a certain code of honor. White didn't have much of a code at all. Sharkey would have said that he'd never make higher than a Lieutenant, First Class, if he got that far. To hear him referred to as Commander White was a surprise… To hear that he'd been aide-de-camp to Captain Howell, at the Pentagon was unbelievable. But to find out that the two of them – Howell and White – had been involved in a plot like this…

Sharkey had come late to Seaview. The COB back then, Chief Curly Jones, had brought Sharkey over from a straight Navy boat, to this hybrid that was more a research vessel than it was Navy. At first, Sharkey had been a bit dismayed at the looseness of the boat. But it hadn't taken long for him to be seduced by it. Captain Phillips had enjoyed a good rapport with his men, and the officers under him were sterling examples of the breed. Even the second officer, Mr. Bishop, had his good qualities – he was nothing near as bad as White. A little impatient, a little hard-nosed, but fair nonetheless. Sharkey had been impressed with the quality of men aboard this boat. He'd been more than impressed with Admiral Nelson; he'd been in awe…

The admiral had already had the Flying Sub on the boards when Sharkey came in. The team had been formed, and it involved mostly insiders from the Institute, though not too many from Seaview herself. Only the captain, who really was only an honorary member of the team, and young Mr. Morton – he'd seemed very young to Sharkey, back then – who'd provided the mathematical and technological expertise. Sharkey had been surprised at that, because he had never suspected the depth of the intelligence that lurked behind that cool, expressionless façade. Mr. Morton kept himself to himself, and he was so low-profile, that most of the men on the boat didn't even know he'd served on several of the admiral's design teams. Certainly almost no one who did not work for the Institute had known.

Despite the fact that the Flying Sub was pretty much old news now, she was still the only one in the world. The admiral had reconsidered selling her to the Navy, but that didn't mean that they and several nations of the world didn't want her anymore. Oh, no… They fended off people trying to steal the Flying Sub everyday, even though Admiral Nelson still tinkered with her specifications, making improvements here and there. Even so, the list of the members of the design team was still considered highly classified, so it seemed odd that anyone had discovered that Mr. Morton had been on it. Most of those guys were dead, anyway. Captain Phillips, God rest his soul, had died trying to protect Admiral Nelson on his way to a meeting with the President and Chiefs of Staff… The Institute scientists had all been old guys, and had eventually just succumbed to the ravages of time. Only the admiral and Mr. Morton were left, but who else would know that?

It seemed damned odd to Sharkey. "Begging your pardon, sir, but how would anyone know that?" His question earned a sharp look from the admiral, pacing the floor by the window and chain smoking. Sharkey swallowed nervously, but went on. "That list of names is still classified. No one outside the Institute would know who was on it. Most of the people inside the Institute who would know are dead. The guys on the boat… Most of them don't know, anyway. And I haven't been talking, skipper, I can tell you that!"

Captain Crane gave him a stern look at the outburst. "COB, no one doubts your loyalty, or the loyalty of anyone on board. But no matter how Howell found out, he did find out. And now we've got a problem."

The admiral was more forthcoming with an answer. "The list of names is still classified, Francis. But Captain Howell worked at the Pentagon, and his security clearance was probably high enough to allow him access to the names. Hence, as Captain Crane told you, our little problem…"

Well, that was an understatement, if ever there was one. Sharkey didn't dispute that they had a problem, though clearly it wasn't a little one. What he was having trouble wrapping his head around was the nature of that problem. In his experience, Naval retirement parties didn't generally lead to matters of national security, not even when captains who worked at the Pentagon were involved. Retirement parties were generally fairly silly gatherings where a bunch of people who knew each other got together and shared stories about their years in the Navy, then toasted the guy who was retiring. It was all very boring, and Sharkey had even commiserated with the officers when they had prepared to attend this one…

He frowned, remembering that day. He had come round with the car to the Institute's main building, to pick up the officers and drive them to the airport… He'd actually expected two officers, and was surprised to see three waiting for him. He hadn't thought to ask then, because it had seemed rude, but perhaps it would be a good idea to ask now about that little departure from protocol. He tried to find a way to put it that wouldn't sound like he was questioning anyone's judgment. "I was surprised that Mr. Morton was even going along… How would anyone else know he would be there?"

The admiral turned sharply toward them, and Sharkey sat up much straighter. _Man, oh, man, I've done it now…_ The thought arrowed through his brain as the admiral stalked over to stand shoulder to shoulder with the skipper. But instead of a blistering rebuke, all the admiral said was, "His presence was specifically requested…"

The skipper glanced sideways at Admiral Nelson, as if picking up nuances in the statement that Sharkey didn't hear. "He did train under Howell."

"So did a lot of people. Why single our Mr. Morton out?"

Sharkey puzzled over that, a little confused. "Begging your pardon, sir… I thought Captain Howell was a pilot."

Both of his senior officers turned their heads toward him. Sharkey looked from one to the other of them, trying to read their expressions. The skipper might almost be amused, were it not for the situation. The admiral's blue eyes churned with something unreadable. It was the admiral who answered. "Of course, he's a pilot."

Sharkey almost felt ashamed of his failure to understand. "But then… You said that Mr. Morton trained under Howell…"

The admiral's impatience was clear now. "He did, chief. Mr. Morton flew experimental aircraft and fighters before he joined the Silent Service. Why do you think I needed him on the Flying Sub team?"

Sharkey took a moment to digest that fact. Mr. Morton had been a pilot? He pursed his lips, thinking about that. It made a whole lot of sense, actually. All of them had earned their right to fly the Flying Sub after an extensive training program under Mr. Morton. Sharkey hadn't ever thought to question that at the time, although it did seem a little weird that Mr. Morton did all the training, but almost never flew the little yellow sub on his own. Everyone seemed to accept that FS1 was the skipper's baby… He shook his head, decided it was time to stop asking questions and start finding out what it was he and the guys were supposed to do. "So you want us to keep an eye on Howell?"

The skipper shook his head. "Howell and White are in the wind. But you and I and Kowalski are going to do some hunting out by Selkirk Road. Meanwhile, I want Patterson to dig through land records at the courthouse, concentrating on the area around Selkirk Road. Maybe we'll get lucky and find out that Howell or White has bought property recently. They have to have someplace to go to ground…" 

Sharkey nodded; it made sense, but he'd have a talk with Patterson, and have him widen the search to names of family members of both men. With luck, Pat would turn something up… "Right, sir. Ski and I will be ready when you are."


	9. Chapter 9

The closet was a marginal improvement on the basement. There were no rats – thank God for that – but there wasn't much room to move around either. Chip shifted gently, trying to ease the throbbing in his side, but every time he moved, he bumped against a wall. The pain led him to suspect one or two broken ribs from the beating that White's cohort had given him, but even the beating – brutal as it had been – was better than being shut in with the rats again.

He tested the wire around his wrists. The man who had beaten him had made a mess of his wrists, trying to get the wire off. After a great deal of cursing and several painful backhands – as if Chip were the one at fault - the wire had finally come off, and White's henchman had used another, newer coil to twist Chip's hands together again, behind him this time.

Then, after the beating, he'd been tossed into this closet and left. He had no idea how long ago that was; time was damned hard to keep track of in the pitch darkness, when his mind was muddled, and pain throbbed through every muscle. He was well aware, too, that the disorientation and anxiety caused by the darkness and the anticipation of someone returning to question him was a trick often used to make a man talk. So far, he'd been able to hold his tongue, even after the basement… But worse – unimaginable as that was – was yet to come.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and he tensed, listening. But the steps went on by, fading away. Chip shifted again, and began to twist his hands against the wire. It hurt like hell, and the barbs just sank in deeper, but it would have been criminal not to attempt something. He worked at it steadily, hoping to keep his mind off what was coming… and what he'd already experienced.

He shied away from the thought of the rats, and shut them firmly out of his head. That way lay madness…

But it was harder than it seemed. He could shut away the rats in the basement, but then the Afghani woman's destroyed face swam up from memories better left alone, and from there, it wasn't far to the dark hold of the Ronald Reagan, and the rats heaving underfoot… He shuddered and tried to think about something else. Anything else…

The retirement party idled through his mind; he had thought it odd that he had been specifically invited, had even said something to Lee, who had laughed it off.

_You must have made an impression, buddy._

But he knew that wasn't so. Oh, he was a very good pilot, but that wasn't because of Howell's outstanding training; it probably had more to do with the civilian flight school he'd attended in high school, determined to learn to fly. That man had been an excellent instructor… Howell had been little more than ham-handed. His flight skills were far better than his teaching abilities. But he had turned out some solid, dependable pilots, which probably answered the questions over his promotions over the years. He was the kind to play favorites, though, and Chip had never been one of his favorites. He was a bit surprised that Howell even remembered his name…

But then, it had suited Howell to remember, once he knew that Chip worked for Nelson, and had helped design the Flying Sub. His clearance was more than high enough to discover that little gold mine. Once he'd put two and two together, the obvious first step was to make sure that Chip attended his retirement party… Hence the reason, the XO had been made so uncomfortable among men so far senior to him. He'd been their target all along, and he'd fallen for it…

More footsteps in the hallway; this time they stopped outside the closet door. Chip tensed again, and lifted his chin, waiting.

A soft click sounded – a key turning in the closet's lock. Then the door was pulled open, letting in enough light that he winced and blinked in its glare. The man in the doorway gripped Chip's arm in a vise-like grip and jerked him out of the closet, shoving him down the hallway toward the kitchen. He stumbled, but managed not to fall. A glare at White's henchman netted him only an evil smile and another shove. This time, his ankle twisted painfully under him, and he went down hard on one knee.

"Get up." Commander White didn't sound happy; since Chip wasn't planning on making him any happier, that didn't bode well for this interrogation session…

White's man yanked Chip to his feet, his hands like steel vises. And he clearly wasn't letting go anytime soon… Off to Chip's left, another of the goons stood, waiting. There was a door to the outside just behind that man. And to the right was the infamous basement door that caused his heartbeat to accelerate painfully. He turned his gaze on White, lounging against the table, smiling. "You've gone awfully pale, Morton. Thinking about the rats?"

Chip felt his heart plummet, but kept the panic out of his face, just barely. He schooled his features, trying desperately for the dispassionate façade he wore on the job. He said nothing; the less he said, the harder it would be to get anything out of him later. But he knew he was in for a rough time…

"You're probably thinking someone's bound to have missed you by now," White taunted him. "Nelson's bound to be looking, right?" He laughed. "If Nelson even cares, he doesn't have the least idea where to start looking. By the time he gets a clue… Well… You won't live to see him again." He straightened and moved a lot closer, invading Chip's personal space, as if he thought proximity would be intimidating. White was big, but it would take more than that to intimidate one of Nelson's hand-picked men. "So let's talk about the Flying Sub. Tell me about her engines. State-of-the-art? Something totally new, I'm guessing, since they function in and out of the water. How did you design them, hotshot?"

Chip gave him the frozen glare that had cowed recalcitrant sailors into instant submission. White flinched back a step, then held his ground. Angrily, the man raised his hand, a threat that Chip gave the contempt it deserved. He'd been hit before, and clearly he'd be hit again; it wasn't any big deal… Yet…

"What fuel do you use for these engines? Are the controls the same to fly her as they are to drive her, or do you have two separate control panels? Does she have a reactor? If so, what sort?" White snapped out the questions, fast and furiously. When he got no answer at all, he delivered a powerful backhand that would have knocked Chip off his feet, if the subordinate hadn't been holding him. "Damn you, answer me!"

"Sir…" That was the man by the door. White turned his head sharply to look at him, then nodded and stepped back.

The man – virtually indistinguishable from the other goon at Chip's back – stepped in, pulling a knife from his pocket. This was definitely not going to be good. Chip steeled himself and met the man's eyes, as the point of the knife was laid against his throat.

For a moment, they stared at each other, before the man spoke, his voice raspy and guttural. "My wife left me for a pretty boy like you."

Seriously? Chip heaved a bored sigh that made the cut across his chest sting. Of all the interrogators he could get, he had to get Lovesick here?

"You think it's funny? Are you laughing at me, sir?" The knife flicked upward, leaving a shallow cut on his cheek, then returned to rest against the hollow of his throat. "A blond, pretty boy, just like you… I cut his heart out, when I found them." The man gave a low hollow laugh. "And before I threw him overboard, I cut my initials in his flesh. How about I do the same to you?" A hand fisted in the remnants of Chips' dress white jacket, and the shirt beneath and ripped them open. The knife settled against the bare skin of his chest. Again they stared at each other for precious seconds, until – without a flicker of warning in his eyes – the man drove the knife in, deep enough to hurt, shocking a gasp of pain from Chip. The knife danced along a curved path, lifted only for a moment, then dug in again, in a right-angled path. "S. L. That's my name, pretty boy… Stan Lovell." He laughed again, and dragged the knife along his skin, leaving a shallow cut in its wake. "I kept her for awhile. She begged to come back to me… The whore." He spat, and the spittle slapped against Chip's cheek and slid down, slimy and wet. "Know her name? Angela…" The knife bit again, suddenly, deeper than before, a bloody caress that he gritted his teeth against.

"You want to tell me about the Flying Sub, now?" White's voice again, and Chip could hear the mocking sneer under his words. "Stan here is an artist with a knife."

Stan set about proving it, with a series of cuts some deep enough to bleed, one a serious cut above his ribs that slid in like silk and came out on a fiery throb, and some shallow enough to set every nerve in his skin tingling. Shallow cuts always hurt the worst, but endurance was possible. Chip shut his eyes, and closed himself off from the pain, in the same way he'd closed himself off from his father's insults and humiliation. It wouldn't work against everything, but against this it could be effective. He closed himself off and went elsewhere…

The blow was unexpected, snapping his head to one side, and making him aware of the myriad stings across his chest, aching with every breath. He lifted his head and glared at the man who'd hit him: Mark White.

"We seem to be boring you, Morton." White sneered. "But I know how to get your attention." He stepped aside, and nodded at his two henchmen. One of them stepped to the basement door and opened it with a smile.

God, no… Not again…

Chip set his feet, biting back the moan of terror that rose in his throat, as they dragged him toward the basement door again.


	10. Chapter 10

Sharkey lifted the night vision scope and peered through it. No doubt about it, this particular place was ideal. There was no way in that didn't have a dozen or more sightlines from the house. They couldn't approach easily without being seen. By the same token, no one could escape easily without being seen and recaptured. There were no close neighbors, and the place looked sufficiently run-down that no one would think it possible that a missing Naval officer might be held prisoner there… Yet, it was sufficiently intact that someone could hole up there and be relatively comfortable. It was far off the beaten path, not a place anyone would have looked. And it was sufficiently far from Selkirk Road, that the skipper wouldn't have seen it when trolling for places along that route.

He passed the scope to Captain Crane with a recommendation. "This could be the place, sir. I don't see any cars, but they might be in back."

He watched the skipper lift the scope to his eye and look through it. The skipper was feeling these late nights, he knew. He doubted Captain Crane had gotten much sleep since two nights ago, when his XO was taken. Two nights that they had hunted along Selkirk road, and ventured farther afield into the trees, looking for someplace that might be used as a prison.

Captain and XO were friends, good ones, after these four years of close coordination. The skipper would be only too well aware of what might befall his friend, if Mr. Morton didn't spill the information they wanted. And knowing Mr. Morton – as stubborn as he was – he wouldn't say a word.

In his years in the Navy, Sharkey had been in a few tight places. He knew the kind of people who might be holed up in that house; he had first hand, intimate knowledge of people like that. It disturbed him that one of those people was that Mark White, who was among the worst men Sharkey had ever worked with. He had been briefed by the skipper and the admiral on the situation at the retirement party, and he knew that there was some kind of history between Mr. White and Mr. Morton. The skipper had picked up on that in the receiving line, and the skipper was rarely wrong. If Mark White was running true to form…

It sickened him to think of what White might do… The villain would have made it his business to find out every possible weakness that Mr. Morton might have. Sharkey didn't know himself what would give a man like the XO nightmares but it was a given that Mark White would know. And he would capitalize on that. Even take it further. Sharkey had seen what White was capable of, on the Hopper, and had heard even worse stories from his girl on the Ronald Reagan. He worried over what White was doing right now…

His attention was caught by the skipper again, as Captain Crane lowered the scope. "It's certainly remote enough. But I don't see how we can get close enough to be sure…" He was silent, thinking it through.

Sharkey offered some help. "I can only see one way to approach, sir. We might be able to get there from the lee-side." There was a small grove of trees on that side; not too dense, but perhaps enough to provide some cover. He hadn't been able to tell through the scope, but he knew that some of these old farmhouses had basement entrances on the lee-side of the house, protected from the elements. This house looked large enough to maybe have a basement, or at the very least a root cellar. If they could reach the house, and get in through the basement, they'd be at a disadvantage coming up the basement stair, but their entrance would be guaranteed to be a surprise. "We can send Kowalski. He's checking out that side of the house, sir." He started to raise his flashlight to signal Ski, but stopped when the skipper shook his head.

"I don't like it… The cover isn't dense enough." The skipper lifted the scope again, but this time, he directed it away from the house, toward a small body of water off to the north. "We can hire a boat, and get a look at the back of the house. Maybe that will give us a little more information."

It probably would. They would at least be able to tell if there were any cars round back. But it went against the grain to wait that long… "We wouldn't be able to hire anything till morning, sir. Shouldn't we go ahead, try to get closer."

The skipper shook his head. "I know what you're thinking, COB. But we can't afford to make any mistakes here. As soon as they know we've found them, Mr. Morton becomes expendable. I won't take that chance."

Sharkey felt a little sick. Man, oh, man, he wouldn't want to have to be the one to tell the admiral… Or the crew, for that matter… "Sure, sir. I understand." He slid back from his spot, and crawled a few feet before rising under the cover of the trees and heading for the road. He heard the skipper behind him. "I'll call Ski in. We can make for that lake now, sir. Maybe there's an all-night boat rental place."

It was a small body of water though… He turned toward the skipper with another idea. "I can call Pat, have him retrieve the Zodiac from FS1, sir. We can have it here in a matter of an hour or so…"

The skipper was already nodding. "Good thinking, COB. Get Patterson out to that lake ASAP." He shot Sharkey a sharp glare. "Less than an hour, if at all possible. Stay here. And keep Ski where he is. I'll get eyes on the back of the place, and the three of us can compare notes."

So Sharkey snagged some binoculars from the car, called Pat, then crawled back up into his aerie. The skipper drove away, turning onto Selkirk Road. Sharkey followed him with the binoculars for awhile, until he turned onto the highway, then looked back at the house.

Everything was dark and still. They were either in for the night, or there was no one there… But it didn't bear thinking of, that this could be the wrong house. There wasn't another place anywhere around that was as ideal as this place was. If it were the wrong house, they would have to start again, from scratch, and time was running out… Forty-eight hours, already, maybe slightly more… Much longer, and they could kiss Mr. Morton goodbye, because their chances of finding him were sunk… If this wasn't the place…

It had to be the place. Sharkey had no idea how long a man could hold out against the most sophisticated and painful of questioning techniques, but it was a safe bet that anyone who didn't talk, died… And probably within a week or two. If they couldn't discover a trace after forty-eight hours, their chances were shot. Their window of opportunity for recovery was closing. And Sharkey didn't like the thought of that at all…


	11. Chapter 11

Over Howell's protests, Mark had left their little pigeon down in the rat hole all night, for the second night in a row. The rats were all that seemed to work with Morton. Certainly they reduced him to something less than a man, if a bit more than an animal. A beating hadn't accomplished anything, and Stan's knife hadn't given him even one iota of information. So, the rats were pretty much all he had left…

Now that the sun was peeking over the horizon, Mark roused Mutt and Jeff – Stan, actually, but Mark much preferred his own nickname – and told them to fetch Morton.

This time when they dragged him out, he was almost limp in their grip, and Mark could hear the sobbing, shuddering, gasping breaths. The two ex-Marines shoved him into a chair. Mark reached out and lifted his chin, looking down into leaking blue eyes. Good… Now, maybe they had something. "FS1. Tell me about her reactor. Considerably smaller than the norm, yes? But you get supersonic speed out of it. Tell me how."

Silence except for his quick, painful breathing. Mark was beginning to lose his patience. "Jeff, hold him." He glanced at the other one; Mutt… A man who really knew how to use his fists. "Your turn." Another beating to shake him up, and then if they got nothing, maybe he'd just leave the golden boy with the rats.

Jeff dragged Morton up and held him, as Mutt closed in. Where before there had been silence, this time the thud of fists connecting with muscle and bone drew a cry from his victim. That might be traced to the multiple knife wounds on Morton's chest, but Mark preferred to think that it was proof of the disintegration of his prisoner. "The reactor. Come on, Morton, it's not worth this kind of agony, is it? FS1's reactor!" He watched as Mutt beat on him a little longer. A flurry of punches into his gut, a few above the kidneys, one or two to the face, as Mark lost patience.

But he got nothing. The one cry, some painful gasps, but not one word…

Increasingly frustrated, Mark motioned to Mutt and Jeff. Mutt stepped back, and Jeff let Morton go, watching dispassionately as the commander slumped to the floor. Mark kicked at him, then squatted back down beside him. A look told him the man was reaching the end of his rope. He was white as a sheet, bleeding freely from the cuts on his chest, and from various rodent bites here and there. His wrists were a mess, the barbs digging in deeply. And the ragged, shuddering breaths, the unmistakable panic in the blue eyes, the tracks of tears down that pale face, everything pointed to a man who should have been more than willing to talk to make the torture stop. But even after a night with the rats, he still wasn't saying anything. Why not? What was he trying to prove? "This can all stop right here. Right now. I can put you out of your misery, Morton. All you have to do is tell me about the Flying Sub…" Of course, that was one promise he wasn't planning to keep. He had thought long and hard of all the things he could do to make the golden boy pay for all the years of being passed over, all the reprimands, all the humiliation… The misery, torture, and agony would just increase once he got the information he wanted. Then it was play time, and Mark was looking forward to it.

But still nothing. Oh, Morton was beaten enough that the frozen glare had gone the way of the dinosaur, but he said nothing, grimly hanging onto his silence, in the face of everything Mark threw at him.

Mark contemplated that for a moment. Possibly he was still convinced that Nelson and company were out looking. Why talk if expecting imminent rescue? So… Cut their losses, or keep trying? He stared at Morton idly, rose and kicked him again. "They're not coming. It's going on for three days. Don't you imagine they've cut their losses by now?"

Only the truth. After seventy-two hours, the chances of recovery were incredibly slim. Nelson wasn't a fool. Besides, everything he had was tied up in Seaview. He would move to protect the boat, and anything else could rot. Everyone knew that the only one of his men he really gave a damn about was his captain. Everyone else could be replaced; only the boat and the captain were irreplaceable.

"Why do you think we went after you?" Mark laughed, savoring the impact his words would undoubtedly have. "Who's going to spend time looking for you, Lt. Commander? You're worthless. Hell, by now they've even made any information you might be privy to obsolete." The thought made him angry. All the time and effort he'd put into this, and Nelson had probably already trumped him. He kicked at his captive again, viciously. It was all his fault… By now, Mark should have been a captain at the least, with his own ship, his own crew… Instead, he'd been stuck working as an aide to Howell, using the only gift he had – his interrogation skills - pulling information out of the sorry bastards Howell tossed his way. He kicked Morton again, laughing at the shuddering groan he elicited, and nodded to Mutt. The ex-marine dragged Morton up, and Mark stepped closer, balling his hands into fists. "So how about another visit to the rats? Only this time, unless you're willing to talk before I take you out, I'll just leave you down there."

That got a protest, hardly recognizable, the voice was so weak. "No…"

Mark stepped closer, leaning forward so that his lips were only a few centimeters from Morton's ear. "Then tell me about the reactor in the flying sub."

Silence… No words at all, only the sobbing breaths, the wide-eyed look of terror… Damn it… Mark stepped away and backhanded the man across the face, once, twice, then again, all patience gone. "Your loyalty is misplaced. Nelson isn't even looking." He glared at Mutt. "Put him back in the basement. Use more wire, tie him to the post."

Mutt nodded and swung his prisoner around toward the basement door. Morton put up a fight, a bit like a cornered animal with nothing left to lose. Mark watched with an analytical air as it took both of the ex-Marines to drag him through the basement door, and then only after a flurry of blows to face and ribs had stunned him into half-consciousness. Maybe it had been a mistake to assume the man wasn't much of a fighter… Unlikely now that he would talk. Time to give Howell a report on his lack of progress. It might be necessary to cut their losses on this one. Unless Howell could do a deal for the man himself instead of his information. It really hurt to think about giving up his revenge, selling his chance for money… Admitting failure, when he hadn't expected anything but success… But the People's Republic might have access to more sophisticated techniques that Mark couldn't use here, and Howell really did have a golden tongue when dealing with his buyers. It might be worth a try…


	12. Chapter 12

Admiral Nelson looked around at the men in the Zodiac with him. Lee Crane sat to his right, and Patterson, no longer immersed in county records, was steering the boat. Nelson could feel the tension in all of them, the tension that roiled inside him, too. He lifted his binoculars to his eyes and peered through them at the house in question. "Sister-in-law, Pat?"

"Deceased sister-in-law, sir," Patterson answered quickly. "I almost missed it… But the chief told me to check out family members, too… She and the brother were killed in a traffic accident about three years ago. There's no record that the deed was transferred, but I figured that Captain Howell had somehow gotten hold of it, sir."

It was a good assumption. Howell didn't figure in the records, and the place had the look of something deserted… No one would think he was using it to beat secrets out of people… If that's what he was doing. There was a gray Cadillac parked in the carport at the back of the house. Mark White's gray Cadillac… It followed that Howell was here; and if Howell were here, there was a good chance that Chip was here, too…

The radio in Patterson's hand crackled, then Kowalski's voice came through, hushed but excited. "Movement in the kitchen window. Big guy… Can't see anyone else."

The chief's voice answered, an undertone of anticipation beneath the words. "Can you see White?"

The admiral looked through his binoculars and listened intently. The answer could be what they needed to plan their attack. If White were confirmed inside, then Nelson was sure this was the place. But a gray Cadillac outside wasn't proof.

"Let me see if I can get closer." Kowalski's voice. Nelson bit his tongue against the automatic negative that rose to his lips. It was a risk… A risk he wasn't sure he wanted to take, but a risk that – conversely – had to be taken. He felt Lee's tension, as the captain also raised his binoculars to his eyes. Neither of them said anything, waiting for Kowalski to make his approach. After an anxious moment, the radio crackled again. "Bingo… White's sitting in a chair in the kitchen. There are two other guys, too. I don't see Captain Howell."

Not surprising. Howell was probably upstairs. He did not strike Nelson as the type of man who wanted to be in on the interrogation; possibly he left that to White, while he negotiated the payments. Howell would definitely have the contacts to negotiate the payments. He hoped it hadn't occurred to them that the man was more valuable than the information they might not be able to get out of him… Because Nelson could render the information useless with a few keystrokes, but there was no way he could replace the man. "So, three men, perhaps four, if Howell's there somewhere?"

"That's what it looks like to me, sir." Kowalski's answer was immediate.

Sharkey echoed that eagerness with his own. "You want us to move in, sir?"

Lee Crane answered that. "No, COB. We don't have a plan of extraction yet. And we don't know where he is or even if he is in that house. We only know White is."

Trust the ONI operative to be worrying about where everyone was and how to make a safe extraction. Nelson glanced at him again. "Lee… We may not get a better chance than now. It's been seventy-two hours…"

The hazel eyes turned his way, and he read the concern in them… And the steel. "I know, sir. And I know what he's probably facing right now. But we cannot guarantee an effective extraction without knowing the layout of the house." He turned his head to capture Patterson's gaze. "Pat, can you get that information for me?"

Patterson slowly nodded. "I think I can, skipper. Plans have to be filed at a number of places. I can probably access a set."

Lee nodded. "Do it. And Pat… make it quick."

"Aye, sir." Patterson rowed for the shore, quick as thought.


	13. Chapter 13

Captain Howell snarled wordlessly. It was all coming apart. White had sworn he could get information out of anyone, and Howell knew it was true. He had seen his aide-de-camp break older, more seasoned men than the submariner in the basement… But here he was, reporting his failure to get anything out of Morton. The People's Republic wanted information. They wouldn't pay as much for a man they had to get the information out of themselves. A man, moreover, who had already been given the works by someone else trying to get the same information. He paced the bedroom, running through his options. The information would be compromised almost before the sale went through. Nelson was no fool; he had probably already begun the process of scrapping FS1's blueprints, schematics, and specifications, preparatory to making Morton's information obsolete. There would soon be a new project on the table, and they wouldn't be able to get close enough to get anything about that.

But FS1 wouldn't be the only thing Morton could give them. There were Seaview's state-of-the-art computer systems; Howell knew well that Nelson for all his brilliance didn't know the first thing about computers. That would have come from Morton, who had always been fascinated with them. And then there was Echo. The admiral's newest brainchild, a sonar jammer that created so many sonar echoes that the submarines that carried it were almost impossible to find. It would take an expert, someone who knew how to read sonar, and knew how to differentiate the echoes from the real thing. But there were only a handful of men who could do that, and they all worked for Nelson. If Howell had to guess, he'd say that Morton was probably one of them.

Echo was far more valuable than FS1. It was so new that it was doubtful that any of the countries who might bid for it even knew it existed. The People's Republic had come to him for FS1, but if he could give them a technology they hadn't even been aware of… If he could give them Echo… Yes, that might just make the man a little more valuable, despite the fact that they couldn't get the information out of him. The People's Republic had interrogators that made White look like a gentleman. There wouldn't be any withholding of knowledge from them. Of course, they'd probably kill Morton to get it, but Howell had already promised White he could do that. It didn't make a difference to him.

He turned and targeted White with a glare. "You know that we lose if go back to the negotiating table."

White snorted contemptuously. "Isn't that what you're best at? Or are you telling me you can't negotiate a settlement, after all the work we've put in."

"You didn't get anything." Howell sneered at the man, fed up with his sense of entitlement. White always thought he could get something for nothing.

"Not for lack of trying. I thought we had something with the rats, but…" He shrugged, clearly not worried about it. "I can't break him, when I don't have the equipment I need. But the People's Republic should be able to do the job." He smirked. "All you have to do is make them pay for the privilege."

Howell turned away from him sharply, approaching the window and looking down on the fields at the side of the house. The location was a good one. No approach to the house was hidden; no escape route was unseen. There was no vantage point that didn't offer an open view of the house's surroundings. Unless Nelson's men came at night, they would be seen and it would be a simple matter to eliminate the prisoner before they arrived.

He felt a slight pang at that thought. Morton had been an expert pilot, and a good officer. He'd watched the man's career with interest, and had been furious when he'd opted to join the silent service. And, he admitted to himself, even angrier when he had chosen to accept Nelson's offer of a berth on Seaview. Howell was far from the only Naval officer who thought this new hybrid Navy proposed by Nelson and a handful of other scientific men was ludicrous. Private ships and boats crewed by civilians, commanded by Navy men and women… It was preposterous! And yet, influential men had embraced it as the future of the Navy. By proving that the Navy could cut down on its expenses by accepting private subsidization, they had ingratiated themselves with Congress, and earned privileges they didn't deserve. How would these new ships and boats respond when war came, as it inevitably would? How would civilians react in combat situations? Preposterous was too kind a word… It was laughable! It was damnable!

Yet Seaview had proved it could be done. Nelson had married his sailors and his officers successfully, producing a boat that functioned equally well as a private research vessel and a Navy nuclear boat. He had promised that she would be the first of many, and no one had any doubts that Nelson could and would deliver on his promise…

It had ticked Howell off that a man with wings would choose to muck about in the ocean depths. If a man could soar, why would he want to sink? And if he were going to sink, why would he choose to do it in Nelson's hybrid boat? Howell had done his best to destroy that boat… It had survived every attempt. And Nelson had stolen a promising pilot and turned him into a submariner… God help them all, if that was the kind of thing Nelson did to further his own agenda…

But it was Nelson's secrets that the People's Republic wanted. Dr. Gamma, the man he did business with, was obsessed with Nelson. He had crowed over killing Nelson's top man, Captain John Phillips, and he probably wouldn't hesitate to purchase Nelson's XO for the information in his head. Yes, he had a true bargaining chip… He smiled at the pun, but when he swung around to face White again, the smile had turned to a growl. "You just don't get it, do you? I've already made promises! Now you're telling me you can't keep them! Do you really think they'll want to sit down and bargain again?"

White laughed. The sound was startlingly eerie in the sun-drenched room, that dark waterfall of sound sucking the air out. "I think that Dr. Gamma will pay for anything that will undermine Nelson. Anything or anyone. Get to it, Captain. Your retirement and mine hinges on your skills now." He walked from the room, leaving Howell gasping for breath, wondering if he had ever really been in control of their little venture. Since White had come on board, it seemed as if he called all the shots and Howell was merely the lackey…


	14. Chapter 14

Patterson had spent the best part of the day checking out various city offices and contractors, before he had finally found a contractor who had made modifications to the house, and had blueprints. Once he'd turned up Steven Carlson, he had instantly reported in. Captain Crane had shown up at the contractor's office, but it had taken all the persuasion he was capable of, and a good bit of the admiral's money to wheedle the plans out of the man. Lee understood the stubbornness; he truly did. Carlson could get into quite a lot of trouble if it were known he had parted with the plans of a house he had worked on. But it had been frustrating haggling with the man, knowing they were running out of time.

But now… Now they could make a plan. Patterson rolled the blueprints out onto the table top and looked expectantly at Lee. Kowalski, the chief, even the admiral came to stand around the table and look at the layout.

The captain frowned at the blueprints, concentrating fiercely. First, he tapped out all the entrances, muttering to himself. Then he checked the layout of the rooms, lingering over the basement, and a small closet just off the kitchen. He said nothing to his men, yet. They would be enlightened soon. But clearly, the layout of the house meant there were only two places a prisoner who would be furiously trying to escape could be securely held. That small closet was one possibility. There wouldn't be much room to move around, making an escape attempt difficult if not impossible, especially if the prisoner were bound, or had been otherwise incapacitated.

He flinched at the thought, then shoved it down. Impersonal… Best to keep it impersonal until such time as they had successfully extracted their missing officer. He would not – could not – put a name to the missing man, because then it hit far too close to home. If he could think in intangibles, he would think more clearly.

The only other feasible place to hold a man was the basement. It wasn't small, but it wasn't huge either. Most likely an old root cellar. If there had been shelves built in at one time, it would appear that they had been cleared out. They did not show up on the blueprints. There were two wooden supports, but only one light fixture. A man down there in the dark, with no idea where the exit was would find escape difficult at best. Secured to one of the supports, perhaps disoriented and confused, depending on what had been done to him in the past seventy-two hours… Yes, the basement was feasible.

He knew the men were trying to follow the thoughts that were hidden behind his concentrated frown. They would have figured out that the front entrance didn't appeal to him. It was too far from any likely prison cell. Trying to enter that way would virtually insure that the prisoner would be dead before they could reach him.

But the kitchen entrance was problematic, too. It appeared from Kowalski's sighting this morning, that White and his goons were frequently in the kitchen, probably because it offered proximity to their prisoner. The goons undoubtedly did White's bidding, and White was probably the principal interrogator. He asked the questions, while the goons tried to get the answers. How they tried to get the answers was something Lee would dearly like to know. It could be important, since the condition of the prisoner could adversely affect the extraction…

Obviously a beating… That was standard. A knife probably had figured at some point in the last seventy-two hours. What else? Lee wasn't sure, but the basement worried him. Rats would likely collect in the basement, and he knew that their missing man was terrified of rats…

He hated himself sometimes when he went cold like this, scheming and plotting; was he hero or villain when he refused to grant any sort of humanity to the package he was trying to recover? Couldn't call the man by name, couldn't feel anything, couldn't even flinch when he considered the kinds of torture that might have been applied…

He shook the thought away, and turned to the upper story, scowling at the number of windows. Too many entrances and exits. The upstairs was a completely indefensible mess. The bedrooms were certainly sized luxuriously, which probably explained why Howell chose to remain there… But they couldn't enter there and hope to reach the XO before…

How had that slipped out? He had thought himself locked down until this was over, but somehow, he had allowed that position to slip out, and once it had…

He'd been the youngest sub commander in Naval history. When he'd reached command rank, he'd been about the age Chip Morton was now. In those five years, he'd only ever had two boats. But never had he worked with an officer who made his command so very easy and efficient… If the Navy ever created a visual dictionary, the entry for XO would be Chip's picture…

"Lad?" Nelson's voice was tinged with concern. Lee realized that he was clenching his fists against the blueprints, crumpling them beneath his hands. This was why he had to shut away all emotion, this was why he had to strip face and name from the package he was trying to extract… He couldn't think clearly, if he was trying to rescue his friend. He could only think clearly if it were a total stranger, and he had no stake in the outcome.

"I'm fine." He snarled the words, and bent to the layout again, decisions made. "We can't reach the house safely except under cover of darkness, so we go tonight. Kowalski, you'll take up the same position you did last night, and get as close as you can, under cover of darkness. Your job is look-out. Tell us when the kitchen is empty. If you can, find out where White and his goons are, we'll need to know." Best practice was to slip in, grab the package, and slip out without ever engaging the enemy, and he would follow best practice if it killed him. No matter how much he wanted to engage this enemy… "Chief, you, Patterson, and I will wait for Kowalski's signal, and go in through the kitchen door…"

"You're not leaving me out of this." The admiral's voice was hard and determined. Lee had known he would insist on a part in this. Admiral Nelson's feelings ran deep, but he was almost never demonstrative. There were those who said he didn't care about his men, but they were wrong. The admiral never left a man behind; someday he was going to get himself killed trying to save someone else. But it wouldn't happen on Lee's watch.

"You're our back-up, sir. I need you to stay clear, and call for help, if we can't pull this off."

The admiral snorted, seeing through the ploy. "If you can't pull this off, there won't be any reason to call for help. My entire command team will be dead. That's unacceptable, Captain. I go in with you, or none of us go."

He was stubborn enough to carry through his threat. But he also knew perfectly well that Lee was stubborn enough to go without him if circumstances dictated it. There was no clear sign that circumstances did, so Lee gave in gracefully. "All right, sir. But it's my plan, my rules." He glanced back at the expectant chief and Patterson. "We'll go in the kitchen door. Patterson, you and the admiral will check out the closet here." He stabbed a finger at the closet off the kitchen. "Be as silent as you can. If you find the prisoner there, get him out quickly, don't wait for us."

He glanced at the chief. He knew that the basement was a far more likely cell than the closet. And there was no one he'd trust more than Sharkey to help him get the package out. "COB, you and I will head for the basement." His finger slid across the blueprint and tapped the basement softly. "Here. Again, if we find him there, our job is to get him out quickly and quietly." He paused, considering, knowing that if they ended up going their separate ways – as undoubtedly they would, depending on where the package was to be found – they needed a rendezvous point. "We'll meet at the edge of the woods by Selkirk Road." The car would have to be parked there, out of sight. "Kowalski, once we're inside, you head there first. Have the car ready when we reach you. Chances are, our man will need immediate medical attention. Make sure you know where the nearest hospital is."

The admiral nodded approval. "Will is on a flight out here already. He'll land at eighteen hundred hours. We can relay the name of the hospital when he gets here, and he will meet us there."

Lee nodded. Trust the admiral to think of that. For all their teasing of Will McKenzie, and the many times the command team had butted heads with the man, neither of them would be comfortable in lesser hands. "Very good, sir." He shot an eagle-eyed glare around the table. "Do we all understand?"

Heads nodded solemnly. Lee intensified his glare, making sure that the gravity of the situation was felt by all. "We get one chance at this. If we fail, we lose a man. I'm not inclined to accept failure, gentlemen. Do we understand?"

The chief spoke up first, face grim. "Aye, sir. We all understand, and we won't fail you, or Mr. Morton, sir."

"Aye, sir," Patterson and Kowalski echoed, and their eyes held the knowledge of the importance of this. It was why the chief had chosen them; it was why Lee would have chosen them as well. They wouldn't let him down; they wouldn't let any of their officers down. They were the finest men he'd ever worked with.

But all he said was, "Get ready to go."


	15. Chapter 15

Howell knew White was watching from the front window. He could feel the man's stare against his back like a knife waiting for him to make a mistake. Stupid really. White couldn't hear what he was saying, and there was no way to trace this phone, so the conversation was completely secure. But White had to have his finger in every pie, whether it was warranted or not. Howell ignored him, doing what he did best.

"So… You can't deliver what you promised, can you?" Dr. Gamma's voice was smooth as silk, deep and melodious. If his hearers didn't know him, they wouldn't hear the undertone of anger in his voice. Many of his victims had made that very mistake.

"I have the package in hand. But Lt. Commander White has had… difficulty in getting it to work." He smiled, knowing that White wouldn't have countenanced his next words; just as well that he couldn't hear the conversation. "I know that your men are very efficient. It occurred to me that you could do what White can't." He shouldn't be using names, but it didn't really bother him if White were fingered and arrested.

Dr. Gamma practically purred his agreement. "Oh, my people can get anything out of anyone. I have never failed to gain the information I seek."

"Then suppose we just change the parameters of our agreement?" Howell paused, mustering all the calm he could. It wouldn't do for Gamma to scent fear or uncertainty. He was worse than a piranha if he thought he had the upper hand. "I'll sell you the package, and you get the information you want."

He waited in silence for a long moment. Silence so harsh that it prompted him to speak, to babble even, but long experience with Gamma kept his tongue still. If he started babbling, Gamma would know he was afraid. Besides… He had an ace in the hole. "We might have to come down on price." Gamma's voice was stony.

"Oh, I think we might be able to negotiate price, but before we do, I wonder… Have you ever heard of Echo?" He knew the answer; Echo was Nelson's best kept secret. Gamma would know nothing. But he wouldn't admit his ignorance. He would scheme to pull the information out of Howell, without considering that Howell wanted to give him exactly enough to make him salivate for the rest.

"Echo… Of course. One of… the admiral's inventions." No names; Dr. Gamma was very careful of that.

But it was a lucky guess; or an educated one. Gamma was obsessed with Nelson. Everything that Howell had ever sold him had had Nelson stamped all over it. He would know that Echo was Nelson's baby. "A sonar jammer. Works very well, I'm told."

Gamma was silent, but tension crackled through the phone line. He had the man hooked now. "You can give me this invention?"

"No. But our package can. He has the specs in his head, and he's one of a handful of men who can accurately read the sonar echoes and distinguish the target. There's a wealth of information in there." He didn't really know that any of that was true. But it was likely. Nelson had two golden boys, but only one of them was a mathematical genius and a computer expert. Crane's expertise was of the more violent kind.

The pause was a lengthy one; Gamma was considering the proposal. He would come to the right conclusion, but he would drag his feet before agreeing. "You want more for the package than we agreed to. You think you can get me to finance your mistakes."

"I think that Echo is worth more than what you were originally offering. In conjunction with the information you wanted originally, plus anything else you might be able to get from the package…" He paused to savor the fact that now he had the upper hand; Gamma would pay, oh, yes, he would. It occurred to Howell that he would pay simply for the privilege of being able to get his hands on someone who was Nelson's, regardless of whether or not he could get anything from the man. "It adds up, sir. To a considerable amount I should think."

Gamma said nothing for a long moment. Weighing the pros and cons no doubt. It would be more difficult to get a man out of the country than to get information that could be hidden on a microdot on just about anything. But if the man were as valuable as Morton was… Gamma would definitely bite.

But he pointed out the logistics first. "Getting your package out of the country will be considerably more difficult. Especially if it's being looked for. And I doubt that the merchandise is… undamaged."

"It's been more than seventy-two hours. Unlikely that it's still being looked for." Howell had an idea that wasn't true. Nelson was nothing if not a bulldog, and he wouldn't let one of his golden boys slip away if he could prevent it. But the longer it took him to find the trail, the less likely it was that he would be able to prevent the exchange. Victims who weren't found in the first forty-eight hours were generally lost for all time.

"Less chance that it will be found, but we both know it is being looked for." Gamma drily called his bluff. "And that makes it a great deal of trouble to move."

"Let us worry about logistics. We have a plan." Well, they would have, very soon. White was the logistical expert. He would figure something out. "Can we agree that the package is worth… fifty million?"

Gamma sucked in his breath. "Twice as much as I offered? For damaged goods? I don't think so."

"It's true, the goods are damaged, but still capable of giving satisfaction for the money. But if you don't want to do business, all right. There are plenty of other interested buyers. One of our Middle Eastern clients was willing to offer a great deal more than twenty-five million, even for damaged goods. He is after all, one of the admiral's inner circle. I am sorry that we can't deliver what you wanted, but since you haven't paid us yet, you're not out anything. Good-bye." He made to hang up, but stopped when Gamma's voice, dangerously low came through the phone.

"Stop." Only his breathing came through the connection minute after minute, building tension in Howell's shoulders. When he finally spoke it was to make a counter offer. "One of the admiral's inner circle, you said?"

Howell hid his smile, almost as if he were afraid Gamma could see him. Ridiculous of course. But he truly didn't want to jinx this, and he had known that Gamma would bite the bait on that hook. "Of course. One of his golden boys. You know the one, I think."

Gamma said nothing for a long moment. When he did speak again, excitement colored his voice and destroyed his caution. "Not Crane… Morton? Of course. It must be…" He hissed air through his teeth, a painful sound over the phone, then made a counter-offer. "Thirty million."

Howell snorted. "For all the information this package can give you? That's a bargain. Forty-eight million."

They settled into haggling. Howell knew he wouldn't get much more than forty million. Gamma would drive a hard bargain. But forty million would allow him to retire to a Caribbean paradise and live the good life. He wouldn't need to worry about money anymore. As for White, he should be more than happy with his share. He reached his price and didn't budge, allowing Gamma to realize that there wouldn't be anymore haggling. At last they settled – forty million, just like he'd planned – and hung up. White should be pleased. And if he wasn't, too damn bad. Howell dropped the phone in his pocket and headed back to the house.


	16. Chapter 16

Lee Crane watched the sun set behind the house, nervous tension coiling in his stomach as it always did when he was about to begin an operation. He knew his men were in position, waiting Kowalski's go-ahead, and he knew they were the most trustworthy men for the job. The tension came because the stakes were so high, because if the sun rose in the morning, and they hadn't completed this task, then the chances were they never would…

He shook the thought away, watching the night stretch darkening fingers over the landscape. Kowalski should be in place now, watching. He glanced at the team with him, and nodded to them to move closer. Under cover of darkness they could get much closer before they had to storm the house and extract their target. When they reached the last of the trees, he dropped down to his belly, knowing the men with him would do the same. Cautiously, he crept closer, wriggling through the grass on his stomach.

It was too early to expect a go-ahead from Ski yet. The sun had barely set, it was only around nineteen hundred hours… Unlikely that all activity in the house would have ceased until about twenty-three hundred hours, perhaps later. They would have a very short window to get in and out successfully. He paused in his advance and glanced around at his team. Sharkey and Patterson were close behind him, the admiral bringing up the rear. He had grumbled about that, but Lee wasn't about to let him be first in the door as he wanted to be. If Lee had had his way, he'd have left the admiral behind in their hotel room, coordinating their efforts, but nowhere near the line of fire… It was hard enough worrying about the man they'd come to extract, without worrying about Nelson, too…

But he had known it wouldn't go down that way. The admiral had too great an interest in this. He invested his heart and soul in his men; even the least of them was worth fortunes to him. But this wasn't one of the least of them… And the admiral was spitting mad, afraid of what they might find in that house, and determined to get Howell and White… Impressing upon him that their first order of business was to get their man out of that house in one piece hadn't been too hard. But he had balked at not pursuing either Howell or White at this time. He wanted justice… But Lee knew only too well that in situations such as this, justice had to take a back seat to men's lives. He knew that Admiral Nelson, who had done his own fair share of missions for ONI in his younger days, understood that. But he had grown used to getting his way with a minimum of fuss, and he wanted Howell and White.

The darkness had spread across the landscape now; the sun had dipped below the horizon and was no longer visible. They would be able to get closer still, now. He eased forward, hearing the soft rustle in the grass as his men followed him. He was fortunate in this group of men. They were well-trained, and they would do whatever he asked of them. It was frightening sometimes to have people trust him that much. If he made a mistake, he wouldn't be the only one who paid for it. He had learned over the years that he could not afford to make a mistake… And the admiral had pointed out to him on more than one occasion that there were too many men on the boat who would willingly sacrifice themselves for him; not only could he not afford to make a mistake, he couldn't even afford to be in the line of fire.

One of those men who would sacrifice himself without question was in the house Lee was so focused on; now that they were moving, he put aside his ability to coldly withdraw. Now he could think about what failure would mean, and set in his mind and his heart the absolute necessity to succeed. His best friend's life depended on it.

Odd that he could consider the younger man his best friend. They'd only served together on Seaview. He hadn't made the greatest first impression when he'd come on board, so soon after Captain John Phillips' death. The first time he'd set eyes on Chip Morton, they had clashed over Lee's chosen method of entry onto the boat. And they had clashed the whole trip out and back. In part, that was because they were so different. In part, it was because they were so much alike. But even on that first voyage, Lee had grown used to having his every thought intuited almost before he spoke it. He had even grown used to the automatic questioning of orders Chip felt would pose a danger to the boat and the men. He had found that he liked the fact that he could relinquish his fears for the safety of those around him to the person whose proper responsibility that safety was. He hadn't realized how inferior his XO on SSN Indianapolis had been until he'd worked with Chip Morton.

So when his stubborn XO had tendered his resignation at the end of that very first voyage, he had, with the admiral's help, acted swiftly to quash it. They had struck an agreement at last: Lee would supply the madness and Chip would supply the method. Somehow the bones of that agreement had leaked out, leading to a nickname they both despised, and yet… And yet, they had moved far beyond that agreement by now. Oh, they still clashed – sometimes frequently – but they had grown into a solid working relationship, and finally into a close friendship that allowed them to relax around each other, and even seek out each other's company. The clashes that had been the stuff of legend, had given way to stern conversations and at last compromise. He found that it helped him to get the younger man's view on things, and he had done his part to ease that younger man into more command responsibility. Chip Morton would make an extraordinary CO someday… If he lived…

And that was what this mission was about; insuring that he lived to earn his own command. Lee paused again, eased back onto his knees and lifted his night vision scope to his eyes. The house was about the length of two football fields away now. He couldn't see any movement around it. Was it possible that they hadn't posted any guards? Were they so confident that no one was looking, or that no one would find them?

The chief's radio crackled, and Kowalski's soft voice penetrated his chain of thought. "White still in the kitchen. The goons are nowhere in sight."

Which could mean the goons were on watch somewhere. Lee concentrated on the view through the night vision scope. Motioning to his men to keep down, he swept the scope across his field of vision, looking for something that would give away the position of any guards.

He found the first one, leaning against the corner of the house, holding a rifle. That one clearly didn't expect any trouble. He was smoking, and it was the tip of his lighted cigarette that had given him away. Careless; but it was good for them.

The second one walked around from the north side of the house, opposite Kowalski's position, a few minutes later, and accepted a cigarette from the first one. Both of them were careless… But they were big, too. Big enough to be a problem, when Lee and his men tried to neutralize them. He eased back down into the grass, and beckoned his men forward. "Two guards. One at the northwest corner, the other probably posted on the northeast corner. They're careless, but we need to be cautious. Chief, your job is the man on the northeast corner. I'll take the man on the northwest. We'll have to be quick and quiet."

Sharkey nodded; Patterson looked a little disappointed, but Lee knew well that he really wasn't a violent sort at all. Better for Sharkey, who was tough as nails, to take out the guard.

The admiral snorted, as if disgusted that he hadn't been included, but Lee ignored him. He had stressed several times over the past few hours that it was his mission and his rules. Admiral Nelson had agreed to abide by that, and so far he had done so. But he wasn't above letting Lee know that he wasn't happy about it.

Another friendship that Lee found odd, given their backgrounds. Nelson hadn't even considered Lee for any of the officer berths on Seaview. Lee doubted that the admiral even remembered that he existed. And yet, when Lee had been seconded to him by the Navy for Seaview's mission to – in the admiral's words – save the world from a nuclear war, they had hit it off immediately. Nelson had welcomed him aboard when the other officers and the crew had been angry at his methods. He couldn't help it; he'd always thought outside the box, and if the mission were truly as important as he'd been told it was, then security should be tight.

And it had been tight, though not as tight as he would have liked. He'd made changes since, and yes, those changes had been opposed, but in the end he'd gotten his way. He generally had… until he'd come up against Admiral Nelson.

He had thought he would return to SSN Indianapolis once the one voyage on Seaview was done. But it hadn't worked out that way because Nelson wanted him. He had thought he was going to lose the best damned XO he'd ever worked with, but he hadn't because Admiral Nelson had squashed that resignation quickly. He had thought any number of things, but if Nelson wanted something else, Nelson generally won.

That kind of pig-headed stubbornness generally turned Lee right off. But Nelson was more than a four-star admiral throwing tantrums till he got his way. God knew the Navy was full of those. He was also the most sincere and intelligent person Lee had ever met. It hadn't taken him five minutes to realize why every man who served on Seaview had been chosen for her. Their quality outshone the quality of any man he'd ever worked with, and Nelson was their staunchest defender. And it hadn't taken long before Nelson had made himself into Lee's staunchest defender.

The connection between them had been immediate. Nelson felt like the father Lee had lost when he was ten years old; and he knew that the admiral considered Lee the son he'd never had… In fact, the admiral had a hundred and twenty-five sons, but Lee knew he was closer to him than any of the others. Lee counted himself privileged that he had gained that kind of entry into this strange little family.

Again the crackle of the radio interrupted his wandering thoughts. He shook his head, knowing that he shouldn't allow himself to be distracted from the task like this. He glanced at the chief sharply, but Kowalski's voice answered his question. "White leaving the kitchen. Can't tell whether he's headed upstairs. Still no sign of the goons."

The chief answered him. "We've got the goons in sight. You just keep your eye on the kitchen."

Lee started forward again. Completely attuned to the surrounding atmosphere, he felt rather than heard the chief hand his radio to Patterson and move out to the side, widening his path so that he could get to the other guard. Patterson and the admiral fell in behind Lee.

He knew when he had finally moved close enough; a heightened sense of awareness of his surroundings, a tingle in his senses… It heralded the nearness of his objective. He motioned to his men to stay down. The chief was already well on his way and would meet them after he tackled his target. Lee moved on alone, wriggling forward on his belly until he was almost under the eaves of the house.

The guard hadn't seen him. He palmed his knife, just in case, and edged closer, until he rose up from right under the man's feet, striking him with the heel of his hand to the throat. The man went down without a sound, and Lee quickly checked for a pulse. He had no wish to kill anyone, but he wouldn't cry over it. This man had probably done a great deal of damage to his friend…

The thought drew a soft growl from him, but he backed away, and reached into the light pack for duct tape. It was the work of a moment to tape the man's arms and legs together and slap a piece over his mouth. Movement at the corner of the house, brought him to his feet, knife at the ready, but he relaxed when he saw it was the chief, giving him a nod to let him know that the other guard had been neutralized.

Lee waved his arm at the others, and watched as Pat and the admiral rose from the grass and moved stealthily forward. They understood what their objectives were. He waved them inside, collected the COB and moved through the kitchen door himself.

The light was still on, but no one was present. The admiral and Pat were already heading for the closet. Sharkey fairly pounced on the basement door. It wasn't locked, but as soon as Sharkey eased it open, Lee heard the rats… And the ragged, sobbing breaths of a man trapped down there with them in the dark…

Damn White to hell. Chip was terrified of rats, with good reason, and that reason could be traced right back to White. Lee darted past the chief, pulling out his pencil thin flashlight and shining the beam on the steps. The rats parted before the light, and Lee went down the steps, kicking them out of his way, in a hurry to reach his friend. He could hear them scrabbling and chattering in the darkness, but as the light touched them, they scrambled madly back into the shadows. Worse, he could hear the whimpering gasps that told the tale of how long Chip had been down here. Long enough to panic… Long enough to lose control… He flashed the beam around the basement, and finally saw it glint off of fair hair.

Sharkey had followed him, but Lee waved him back, not wanting him to see this. He moved closer, instead, curling his lip at the rats that congregated all around. By the support pole, a mound of them pawed at each other, climbing over each other, drawn by the smell of blood. It wasn't till he heard that hoarse, terrified voice pleading, "Get them off… Get them off…" that he realized how dire the situation was. Wading in, he wielded his flashlight as a club, hammering at the rats, sweeping them off in huge numbers, and tried to control the nausea that rose in him at the sight of the bleeding cuts across his friend's chest. The once-perfect dress whites were in rags, and judging from the bruising and the blood, he'd suffered through enough in the last seventy-something hours to break a lesser man… Lee knew he shouldn't say a word, that it was only too probable that the occupants of the house they were trying to avoid would hear him, but he couldn't stay silent… And he needed Sharkey's help.

The chief hadn't stayed back anyway. It was a moment, before Lee realized that the gloved hands helping him pull the rats away were the COB's hands. By then, they had cleared most of the rats, and Sharkey had moved behind the prisoner, pulling wire cutters out of his pocket.

"Chip…" Lee spoke softly, barely above a whisper, and at first wasn't sure that he'd been heard. Gently, he laid a hand on the XO's shoulder, and felt the flinch; he'd been abused for more than three days. In his mind, a hand on his shoulder probably only heralded more abuse. Chip raised his head, eyes wide and terrified, but there was a steel there that surprised Lee. "Go to hell," he growled, between shuddering breaths, struggling to get the words out. "I'm not telling you anything." That snarl of defiance immediately dissolved into an indrawn gasp of breath as another rat dropped down onto his shoulder.

Lee knocked it off pitilessly, not caring that it fell hard and immediately vanished beneath its brethren, fodder for their feeding frenzy. Instead, he stepped into Chip's line of vision and said his name again, as softly as he could. For a moment, he saw only blank incomprehension in those blue depths, but - as Sharkey finally cut the last of the wire coils that bound the XO to the post - recognition flared. Freed, Chip stumbled forward – fell really – into Lee's arms, his hands still bound behind him. Sharkey closed in, wire cutters ready and tried to cut the wire that bound the XO's wrists. As he worked, Lee took stock of the injuries he could see. Clearly there had been beatings. If the ragged breathing was any indication, those had resulted in bruised or cracked ribs. That pale face bore the evidence of the beatings as well, showing bruises, a swollen eye, a cut cheek, and a split lip. A knife had sliced a long, shallow cut across the chest, and there were other shallow cuts as well. Some held the red angry look that heralded infection, and there were a series cut high into his shoulder that almost seemed to spell something out And then there were the rodent bites covering the exposed skin of his chest and arms… The blood had undoubtedly drawn them. If Lee could have, he would have cheerfully murdered White right then and there…

He turned his gaze on the COB as Sharkey stepped back and shook his head, his voice the merest whisper. "It's too dark… I can't see what I'm doing. But they've made a mess of his wrists. We'll be lucky if there's no nerve damage…"

Lee nodded but spoke to Chip. "We're going to get you out of here…"

He wasn't sure his friend had even heard him over the squealing of the rats, and his own painful, struggling breaths. There was really nothing else to say. No matter how they attempted this, it would be painful. He finally just hefted the XO over his shoulder and headed for the stairs, followed closely by Sharkey.

Movement as they came into the kitchen had him shrugging Chip to the floor and drawing his gun in one swift movement. Sharkey grabbed his hand, pulling the gun down before he fired, and Lee realized that the admiral stood in the room, his own gun drawn. "I told you to head for the car!" He kept the words soft, but couldn't disguise the frustration behind them.

The admiral snorted softly. "I wasn't leaving you behind." He knelt down, next to Chip and frowned. "My God, lad, what did they do to you?" He didn't wait for an answer, but snarled at Lee in a voice that – even as soft as it was – heralded his anger. "Howell and White are upstairs. We should…"

"No…" Chip protested on a moan, at the same moment that Lee opened his mouth to speak. "Sir, you're too valuable to risk…"

Lee silenced him with a warning hand, and made the words he spoke to Nelson as firm as he could. "He's right, sir. We cannot engage. Our job is to get Chip safely out of here and to a hospital."

"They shouldn't be allowed to get away with this!"

Lee understood the admiral's insistence, but shook his head against it. "We will have to track them down later. Admiral… He needs medical attention. Right now."

"I'm all right..." The words came out on a shuddering breath that gave them the lie; the XO must have realized how ridiculous they sounded, for he stopped trying to speak, and instead tried to lever himself up, gasping with the pain.

Sharkey snorted, impatient at the delay, and hefted the injured man to his feet, heading for the door without waiting for the others. Their pace was slow, tethered by Chip's injuries, but it was a magnificent display of Sharkey's clear disapproval.

Recognizing it as such, the admiral rose stiffly, turning to watch him go. Lee took his chance, gripped Nelson's arm firmly, and escorted him out the door into the night. Time enough to track down Howell and White later. They wouldn't get away with what they'd done. If he had to hunt them down to hell itself, he would find them.


	17. Chapter 17

Lt. Commander Will McKenzie, M.D. crossed his arms and stared his friend of many years down. "No, Harry, you may not go in, and you may not talk to him." It exasperated him that Harry Nelson always wanted things his own way. They had landed at the Institute that morning, after a cramped flight in the Flying Sub, with a patient who – despite an ordeal that would have broken a lesser man – was already proving difficult. Both in the sense that he was stubborn as a mule and kept trying to insist that he was all right – despite a pair of cracked ribs, mangled wrists, a black eye, myriad cuts, bruises, and abrasions, and rodent bites that had required a shot - and in the medical sense, that he was not responding well to the antibiotics, had a high fever, and his ragged, shallow breathing spoke of a bruised lung that had Will worried. Now that the doctor finally had him settled here in the Institute's onshore infirmary, he wasn't about to let Harry barge in and start asking questions, no matter how important this debrief was. "My patient is more important than your need to know, and he needs peace and quiet and rest. Not to mention X-rays, a different antibiotic, probably some counseling… So get over it."

Insubordination was a dangerous thing for anyone else; Will just presumed upon his long acquaintance with Harry to ride roughshod over his demands. It was true, that sometimes Harry lost his temper quite spectacularly, but Will always put his patients first and Harry's demands a distant second.

Today, weary from the long flight himself, Harry seemed to be willing to let the disrespect pass. "Will… You know I need to get these answers before the Navy sends someone else - maybe someone less pleasant - to ask for them."

"If they do, I'll tell that person where he can go, too." He smiled at the admiral. "You know I will, Harry."

Harry sighed, twisting his lips. "It's not just the debrief, Will. You know that."

And Will did. Harry put his men before himself, always. And he held a special regard for his young command team. While it would have concerned Harry, it would not have surprised him to find Lee in this situation, product of some spy mission gone bad… God knew, they had dealt with those in their day… But the fact that it had been Chip who had been targeted and brutalized had made Harry angrier than Will had ever seen him. They tended to think of the dispassionate, ever-calm XO as safe, somehow. He hardly ever got off the boat while they were on a mission, and outside Naval circles, his name was a complete unknown. He was the self-effacing type, and generally kept a low and very quiet profile. Outside the Institute, it was doubtful that anyone even knew who he was. It had come as a shock that Captain Howell – a man in authority who should have had more integrity - had coldly, calculatedly targeted the man.

And Harry was taking it personally. He had already contacted Admiral Stark, his friend of many years, and Admiral Parker, the head of ONI, and even Admiral Park, who he only knew as another scientific man who had found a haven within the Navy's sheltering arms, with blistering demands for action on this, making it clear in no uncertain terms that he wanted Captain Howell's head. He would settle for nothing less. As for Lt. Com. White… Will winced, remembering the unflattering, unsavory fate that Nelson had demanded for him. Jiggs Stark had been a braver man than Will himself was when he had bellowed over Nelson's furious demands that they couldn't draw and quarter anyone anymore…

Will sighed, staring into Harry's anxious blue eyes, and gave in, knowing that if he didn't, the man would probably camp out here until he did. "No more than five minutes, and I swear to God, if you wake him, Harry, I will have your head."

Harry only laughed at him, and dodged inside the door before Will could stop him.

So the doctor stood in the doorway, watching through narrowed eyes, ready to pounce if the admiral tried anything. He should have known that Harry wouldn't. Instead, Harry looked down on the patient silently, taking stock of all the visible injuries, shuddering a bit as he did so. With good reason. The beating and the cuts were bad enough, but the rodent bites… Will frowned. A tetanus shot had definitely been indicated, and he had stitched the deepest of the cuts, the one that sliced across the chest. He had taped ribs, and carefully bandaged those ruined wrists. They had been extremely fortunate that there had been no nerve damage. Chip could easily have lost the use of his hands, and would probably always carry the scars… Barbed wire, for God's sake… What kind of sadist…

White, obviously, damn his soul. It was absolutely too bad that drawing and quartering had gone out several centuries ago. There really wasn't any other punishment dire enough to fit the crime, unless the criminal were to be tossed into a rat hole and left to die. It was after all what he had done to Chip Morton.

"Time's up, Harry."

The admiral sighed and turned away from the bed. "I am going to crucify them, Will. I promise you that."

Stepping forward, Will laid a hand on his friend's shoulder, trying to ease the anger and guilt. "He'll be fine, Harry. Physically, probably very quickly. Psychologically, it might take a bit longer… But he's resilient and young, and he'll be fine."

Harry shook his head, not disagreeing, but not wanting to drop the subject, utterly fixated on his plans for revenge. "Do you have any idea how much those rats…" He choked the words off, but Will already understood what he couldn't say. The damage the rats had done went far beyond the physical damage of the beatings and the knife wounds, and the bites of the vermin themselves. But Will had never said there wouldn't be scars…

"Trust me, Harry. We will get through this."

Harry nodded, but his eyes were hard and unforgiving. "White is a dead man. I give you my word on that."

And Will believed him without question…


End file.
